


Callous

by skybound2



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybound2/pseuds/skybound2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And through the pain, through the pain she mourns it. Mourns the loss of the child she was, of the adult she thought she’d be. Back when things were simple, easy, linear. When life followed a logical course, and she could tell you where she’d be in one year. Five. Ten."</p><p>Rescued from a mutant experimentation facility, Rogue is left damaged</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Characters** : Wolverine/Rogue (Logan/Marie), other assorted X-men.  
>  **Word Count** : ~1200 so far  
>  **Author's Note:** First foray into X-Men fiction. This bunny bite me and threatened to tear an ear off if I didn't write it, other projects be damned. Possibly some dark subject matter coming up in future chapters (I will warn you if I does). This prologue is a little experimental in style, so here's hoping it works.

_Hurts._

Everything. Everything. Everything _hurts._

She's scraping herself raw; peeling at the layers that bind her, wrap her, hide her until she's pink and bare and cut wide open. Until all that is left is just a bundle of over-sensitized nerves, and the phantom sensation of touch.

Until all of her most vulnerable parts are exposed to the air, and she thinks – _she thinks_ – that the slightest breeze brushing against her flesh might cause her to break.

To falter, crash, crumble to the floor in a useless pile of limbs and hair that was once a girl.

Once a girl on the verge of being a woman.

And through the pain, through the pain she mourns it. Mourns the loss of the child she was, of the adult she thought she'd be. Back when things were simple, easy, linear. When life followed a logical course, and she could tell you where she'd be in one year. Five. Ten. Back before… _before…_

But it is after now. _After._ And she can't forget that, won't ever be able to forget it. Never be able to push it, kill it, bury it so deep that it could never climb back out, and bite her on the ass.

The leftover possibilities have all been consumed. Slurped up, drained dry, usurped. And this – this hazy, gritty, cracked reflection is all that remains.

And it hurts.

Everything. Everything. Everything _hurts._

She stares at her hands, at the simple thin-boned digits protruding from the meaty part of the palm. Stares and stares and stares. At the swirling lines that make up the prints, spiraling out from the center, and twirling down the edges. Stares at the skin, unmarred, undamaged. In need of a callous.

Something, anything, to cover her, and protect her, and keep her safe. Something to absorb the damage as it comes, deflect it away from her center where it can't do any harm. Something, anything, more substantial than the thin layer of tissue masquerading as normal flesh, pulling around her too-bony limbs.

But there is nothing. Nothing. Nothing to be found, nothing to be had. What is left of her, is all there is. And what is left of her, is just a shell. A shell. Turned upside down, and scraped clean.

She'll heal, they say. She'll heal, they've told her. It'll just take time. Time. Time, patience, quiet. She'll heal. She'll heal.

But right now, right now it _hurts._

Everything. Everything. Everything _hurts._

And she doesn't know how it'll ever dim. How the pain could possibly recede to leave something fresh and new and lifelike in its wake. She doesn't know how, because she doesn't think there is anything left inside of her to salvage.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

  


* * *

Logan's not good at waiting. Not good at keeping his emotions - his anger, his rage - in check. He's not good at it, but he is trying.

Trying to avoid busting down the paper-thin door separating him from Marie. The door she scuttled behind hours before. A timid little bird in place of the spitfire young woman he calls his friend.

He's trying, but he's really not very good at it.

So he bides his time, wearing a track into the tile beneath his feet. Twelve steps across, that is the size of the room. This alcove between the med-lab that they brought her to (against his wishes) and the bathroom she sequestered herself in the moment they gave her leave to use it. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Waiting, counting out the seconds, the minutes, until she'll emerge again.

Emerge just as cracked and torn as when she entered. He knows that. Knows that nothing will be different, nothing will have changed between those two points of time.

She will be the same. The same Marie that isn't Marie. No amount of time behind any door will change her back. Make her the girl swaddled in green and sass that climbed into the bed of his truck. Won't make her the soft-spoken teenager that wrapped satin covered fingers around his tags, along with his heart.

No. He knows that nothing will bring that girl back. She is gone. Murdered by the bastards that stole her - stole, tortured and broke her - and in her place is this other. This other - girl, woman, child - that reeks of fear, even through the wood and metal paneling that separates them. Reeks of fear and pain and desolation.

Nothing will bring her back. Not to what she was. Before. But right now, right now as his boot-clad feet beat out a staccato across the floor, he doesn't care. Doesn't care, because they can help her. Chuck and Jeannie. They can help her.

They can help her repair the damage caused to her mind. Help rebuild whatever walls, whatever barriers she needs, so that she can deal with what has happened. Deal with what was done to her. They can help heal her mind. They **will** heal her mind. He won't even consider the alternative. After all, what the hell else are the X-Men good for, if they can't save one of their own?

Physically, there isn't a mark on her. Not a mark on her to attest to what she has gone through. Not a mark on her to tell the tale that Scooter uncovered in the files tagged with her name. With her number. Not a single mark.

And that scares him just as much as everything else.

But the X-Men will do their job, and fix the parts of her that they can. And whatever is left...well, he'll deal with the rest. Him and her. Just like they always have.

Even if he doesn't have the first bastard clue where to start this time.

But if she will just open the door... If she will just open the door, then at least he can... At least then he'll be able to see her. To set weary eyes on her. Eyes that have longed to settle on the softness of her features for far too long. At least then he'll be able to let go of the air that he's been choking on for the past three months. Trying with an ever increasing sense of desperation to find her. Locate her. Bring her _back._ At least then...

"Logan..." It is the tiniest of whimpers. Nearly non-existent. But it is there, it is real. And in barely the space of time that it takes her to breathe it out, he is at the door, one claw unsheathed, and cutting through the lock.

The sound of Jeannie's surprised gasp echoes behind him. A tell-tale sign that though they have left him alone while he has paced, they haven't taken him out of their sights. He can hear shuffling behind him as he pushes the door open, can hear Scooter calling out his name. But he doesn't give a damn. Doesn't give a damn, because Marie needs him. She needs him.

And nothing as idiotic as a lock is going to keep him from her.

Releasing the breath that he has been holding for three agonizing months, he steps across the threshold, and closes the door behind him.

~TBC


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Should probably take a minute to note that while this story is post-X1, there will be some comic elements used. So, yeah, obviously quite AU. Also, this is still a bit experimental in style, so if it seems like there are two stories going on at once, that’s because there are. It all links up though, promise. Possibly some dark subject matter coming up in future chapters (I will warn you if it does). Lastly, thanks to everyone for reading! You guys are awesome!

**Before: Five Months Ago**

Air conditioning. It’s a marvel. One that Logan doesn’t think he’s ever given enough credit to, but now, now as he crosses the threshold into the mansion and is assaulted with cold waves of air, he thinks he might just have to build the contraption a shrine. 

 

Hell, right now, he doesn’t even mind the tinny, mechanical odor the thing pumps into the place. He’ll take that over the smell of the too-warm rubber that is burned into his sinuses, courtesy of long hours spent on a bike baking on the roadway. 

 

For once, Logan can’t wait to get indoors. His internal thermostat telling him that it’s just a few degrees shy of the sun outside, with no sign of relief in the air. One would think that with a weather goddess living in their midst, the residents of Chuck’s Home for Wayward Mutants wouldn’t have to put up with a heat-wave in June. 

 

One would be wrong. 

 

So instead, the sun continues to beat down unmercifully on Westchester, New York, and Logan finds himself peeling a sweat soaked jacket from his body. Eager to get it away from him. He glances up the long length of stairs, and finds that he is less eager to make the trek to his room. Even for the promise of a shower. It’s been a long few weeks, and the rec area is only a few steps away - and with it, the promise of creature comforts that don’t exist in nickel and dime motels. 

 

He shucks his over-shirt off him as well, still blistering with the left over heat from outside, leaving him in just a tank and wondering what the hell he was thinking dressing in layers that morning. The jacket and shirt find a home on a nearby hook - God help anyone that goes near the things - and he makes his way into the rec room, and over to the sofa. 

 

Despite the time, or perhaps because of it ( _ Are classes over yet for the year? _ Logan’s not sure...) the halls, and common areas, are free of kids, and adults. Bathing the place in temporary silence, broken only by the obnoxious ticking of the grandfather clock up the hall. 

 

He lets his body fall, an ungraceful heap, into the sofa. Eyes closed, and head arched, utilizing the back of the sofa to prop his neck up; not bothering to turn the television on. (There’s never anything good on during the day.) One of the buildings many vents blows air out from overhead, and across his scalp. He relishes it. Enjoying the way the sweat on his skin freezes up, and chills him. Lolling him into a doze. 

 

Several minutes tick on by before a creak in the floorboard by the door makes him stiffen, but the rich scent accompanying it calms him. He stays seated. Relaxing once more. Letting the intruder come closer. At her own pace. No threat there. 

 

“Welcome back.” Marie’s warm, southern drawl pulls his attention from the back of his eyelids in enough time to watch her curl her body onto the cushion beside him. Carefully arranging her limbs up under her in a pose that makes his joints ache at the prospect.  _ How the hell can that be comfortable?  _

 

She presses an amber bottle - slick with its own sweat, cap already removed - into his hand. A part of him, one that he’ll never give voice to, growls approvingly at the gesture. No matter how often, or for how long he is gone, he can always count on her to make him feel like he belongs. Like him coming back really is something she welcomes. Like he matters. 

 

The fact that she can do it with just a beer and her presence is a little disconcerting, so he doesn’t dwell. 

 

He grunts in thanks and takes a long draw, appreciating the cool, familiar taste. She graces him with a tiny smile before raising her own bottle in a mock toast, and sipping it with much more delicacy than he did his. 

 

Lifting a brow, he eyeballs the label that clearly reads ‘Molson’ on her bottle - the same as his - and prods her. “Musta been gone longer than I thought.” 

 

“Hmm?”

 

He gestures to the beer in her hand. “Last I checked, you weren’t twenty-one.” 

 

She raises an eyebrow in a mirror of his own, and the urge to smile wide is damn hard to repress. “Never stopped me before.” 

 

And that does bring a smile, he can’t fault her there. The number of times they’ve settled into a routine similar to this over the last three years, is uncountable. But always, they were behind closed doors - or in some other location altogether - where discovery via Cyke or one of his Scouts was unlikely. Not in the middle of the day in the rec room. “Yeah, but you don’t usually advertise it. What gives?” 

 

She spins a lock of white hair around her finger, before sliding it behind her ear, revealing the pale column of her throat - which Logan does his best to ignore. “Nothin’ really.” The corner of her mouth curls up in a smile bordering on devious, and a flash of warmth spreads through his limbs, despite the air conditioning. “‘Cept Scott and Storm are at a pickup in Nevada, and Jean and the Professor have been holed up most of the day makin’ adjustments to Cerebro, or somethin’. And most of the kids are down by the pool with the my Beta Team compatriots.” 

 

He snorts, knowing damn good and well that her not being down by the pool has less to do with her skin, and more to do with her wanting time away from the screaming masses. Still, it begs the question... “Thought this was a school, don’t they still teach around here?” 

 

“Lo-gan.” The way his name rolls off her tongue, like she is simultaneously scolding him and laughing at him, is something only she can get away with. Anyone else’d get a claw in the gut for taunting him like that. “Classes ended two weeks ago, ’s nearly July.”

 

He gives a noncommittal grunt. Keeping the school’s schedule in his head isn’t something he bothers with. No point. Least, not since she graduated. She knows that just as well as he does. He comes and goes as he pleases, doing jobs for Chuck when he’s around - occasionally covering one of Cyke’s pitiful excuses for self-defense classes - but not staying put for long enough to earn his professor’s cap. 

 

Damn good thing too. The kids ‘round here wouldn’t know what him ‘em if he was in charge. 

 

Now he pays more attention to when Marie’s on break from college, and when her own exams come around. Last time he was here was final season for her, and she’d been stressed to all hell. 

 

A night at a local pool hall, one that knows better than to card someone walking in with Logan, took care of that. Damn good time, and they made some decent cash that night too. Girl wasn’t a bad hustler. Thanks in part to the Logan in her head, he’s sure, but also due in part to the southern charm she could lay on. Thicken that accent and tilt her head - threw the drunkards for a loop. Helluva lot a fun to watch. In fact, he’s thinking a revisit might be in order. Welcome back, party of two. 

 

Her smile turns playful, like she’s on the same page as him (and knowing her, she probably is) and she nudges his bare shoulder with her fully clothed one. “‘Sides, I’ll be twenty-one in six months. Need to start prepping my liver. Wouldn’t wanna get alcohol poisoning on my birthday.” 

 

“No, wouldn’t want that.” 

 

“Take all the fun outta it.” 

 

“That it would, Darlin’.” She angles herself back away from him, her face tilting down towards the bottle clasped in her hands. Long fingers encased in dark green fabric pick at the label, peeling it away in stops and starts; little pieces of paper dropping in balls to her lap. Something in her scent changes, moves from the sweet whiskey of a content Marie - the one that he had been happily bathing in like a lap dog since her arrival - to a duller, worried one. Apprehensive. And he doesn't like that. Not one bit. “What’s eatin’ ya, Kid?”

 

She shrugs, and takes another sip - longer this time - eyes closed, and head titled back. The action, simple as it is, highlights the curve of her neck in a way that has his thoughts veering off in an unexpected direction. He’s been on the road too long, and he’s certain that if it weren’t for his healing factor, he would have passed out from heat exhaustion hours before he made it to I-9. 

 

Dehydration. Over-taxed systems. Exhaustion. Insanity. 

 

They’re the only explanations he can think of for why watching her throat move as she swallows the liquid down causes a growing urge to taste the skin there. Makes him want to trail the flat of his tongue along the expanse, and taste the gathered moisture at the divot where neck meets shoulder. The wave of lust is as sudden, and fierce, and it is unwanted. It makes his fingers clench around the bottle, and the arm of the couch. Causes an itching between his knuckles; and a heat, wholly unrelated to the weather, to fill him. 

 

It takes some effort, but he manages to shake himself from the instinctual reaction that clamors to the front of his brain. Represses the desire that has no place here. Nothing good can come from those sort of thoughts, he knows. 

 

“Did ya find anything this time?” 

 

And if ever there was a bucket of ice-water, there it was right there. Nothing better than a reminder of the most recent batch of Weapon X files he was able to uncover, thanks to the most recent link to his past that Chuck had acquired. This packet came complete with surveillance photos - some shitty-ass quality, others in bright high-definition color - and all of them of things he was better off not having seen. It was enough to make him want to stop looking. 

 

Well. Almost. 

 

He looks at her again, letting his eyes linger on her wide, bright ones. Nothing but frank, honest concern -  _ for him _ \- in their depths. And he knows that he isn’t quite done looking. Not yet. She has so much faith in him - so much trust - and he wants to believe that it’s well placed. It gives him the thinnest thread of hope. Something more than just curiosity to keep him looking. 

 

“Nothin’ good, Marie. Nothin’ good.” 

 

She holds his gaze, her head tilting to the side slowly as she takes him in. If it was anyone else, he’d feel like he was being judged. But not with her. Her chin dips a little, an almost imperceptible nod, before she heaves a sigh, and passes her bottle from one hand to the other. 

 

Any question he may have as to why is answered a moment later, when she curls herself into his side, careful to keep a curtain of her hair between his exposed skin and her face. 

 

He follows her example, and changes the bottle to his other hand, leaving him one arm free to wrap around her, so that he can tug her closer. Lets himself be calm for a moment, leaning his head against the top of hers, the soapy smell of her shampoo filling his senses. His about to remark on the change in brand, something more fruity than usual, when she sniffs audibly. Once. Twice. Before she leans up to look at him, her nose crinkled up. 

 

“You stink, ya know that, Sugah?”

 

He laughs. A loud, chest filling gale of laughter. If it were anyone else but Marie... 

 

“Yeah, Darlin’. I know.”

 

 

~~~+~~~ 

 

**After: Day 1**

Logan wasn't sure what he expected to find behind the closed door. Wasn't sure what had prompted the utterance of his name from Marie's lips in the first place. He wasn't sure, but he did have several expectations. She’d be hurt. She’d be crying. She’d be clothed. All reasonable expectations, given the circumstances. 

 

But all reason is tossed out, blown up, scattered to the four corners of the world like so much debris when he sets his eyes on her; pushing the door shut behind him without the expected click – the lock shorn off and all. 

 

The bathroom is neither spacious nor cramped, falling into that oh-so-common middle ground where utilitarian function meets poor design. Not that he cares, but it does cause a logistical problem. Can’t really go anywhere, without the door easing open, so his back presses to the door, holding it in place. He can hear Scooter and Jeannie arguing on the other side. Chuck's always even tones filtering through the bickering. But he tunes it out. Tunes out the world beyond this room, beyond these walls, and instead focuses on the girl kneeling in the corner. A scant two feet from him. 

 

He drags in a cool, over-sanitized breath of air to refill his empty lungs - the whirring sound of the school’s ventilation system buzzing overhead - and lowers himself down into a crouch; angling towards her in the hope of catching her eye, should she deign to look up from the curtain of hair obscuring her from view. 

 

But she doesn't look up. Doesn't so much as acknowledge his presence. His intrusion into her world. She just continues to kneel, glass-paned shower stall door at her back, head bowed against the wall, and her arms wrapped around her in drawn knees. Frightened, yes. Her scent gives that away, though it has dimmed some. But there are no tears, none that he can smell. And there are no wounds - no physical ones at least. 

 

And the thin shift she'd been wearing when she'd entered the room - the standard issue medical garb that Jeannie made all her patients wear - is pooled around her feet. It is startling, the absence of contrast between the white-on-white cotton and her sunless skin. 

 

His expectations are obviously useless in this scenario. 

 

He wants to go to her. Wants to go to her, and pull her close, and make it all go away. Drown out reality in useless promises. But there's no room for him by her side, not without either climbing into the bathing area behind her, or pulling her into his lap. And with so much of her skin exposed, he thinks that might not be the brightest of ideas, so he stays where he is. Needle-sharp teeth of uncertainty gnawing away at him as he waits. Waits on her to say something. Do something. 

 

His frustration tangles uselessly with the remaining threads of his patience. Unhappy with all the waiting that has been forced on him of late. But for her, he will wait. However long it takes. 

 

She drags dull nails, snipped past her fingertip to a point that it looks painful, across her arms. Again, and again, and again. He can see deep indentations left in their wake. The skin rebounding with an elastic bounce as she trails the digits across each part. Swirling, nonsensical patterns mixed in with straight lines. 

 

It’s hypnotic. And he wonders if that is why she does it. 

 

“Marie?” His patience, it seems, has run its course. Still, he manages to keep his voice low, even. So as not to spook her. Like he would a wounded animal. Doesn’t want her to do anything other than trust him. Doesn’t want to give her any cause. 

 

A minute passes, then two, before she pulls her head up, glassy brown eyes staring back at him. All the vibrancy, all the punch normally in them, gone. Vacant. 

 

It scares the shit out of him. 

 

“All gone.” Her voice is thin, soft. And even with his sensitive hearing, he has to strain to hear it. The words themselves echoing his own thoughts so closely, that it makes him tense. 

 

“What’s gone, Marie?”

 

She doesn’t blink, doesn’t twitch at all, as she speaks. The words no more than a sigh. “Everything.” 

 

“Mar-”

 

“Everything, everything. They filled me up. Filled me up, ‘til I was overflowing with ‘em. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t sleep.” One of her hand’s raises to her head, tugging at the hair, eyes still unfocused, staring back at him. “So many. So many of them, Logan. Voices upon voices upon voices.” Each repetition of the words is punctuated by a pull of her hand on her hair. Making him wince. He reaches out to her, to make her stop, and realizes that his gloves are still in his pocket. 

 

With much speed, and very little finesse, he dons the latex pair that Jeannie had given him ages earlier it seems, while he was waiting for Marie to come back out. She blinks at him, her mantra stopping as she watches him. 

 

The sudden inaction makes him pause, makes him wait; hand hovering, ready to reach out to her. The sound of a brittle, moist laugh breaks something inside him. “Aww, Sugah. You don’t need those.” 

 

In a move that seems to happen in slow motion, she reaches out towards him. Those blunt fingertips coasting along his jaw, and lingering for long seconds by his mouth. He can’t breathe, so jarred is he by the touch.  _ Marie’s  _ touch. 

 

There is no pain. There is no pull. But there is something in her eyes, eyes that are no longer exactly vacant. Something that looks like loss. 

 

“They took it away, Logan. All of it. They filled every corner of me up, then they burnt it all away.”

 

~TBC 


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what sucks? Wanting to write, wanting to work on polishing a chapter, wanting to POST, and not being able to because you don't have access to a computer except at work. *sad face* This should be remedied tomorrow. YAY! In the meantime, posting from work *shifty eyes* As always, thanks to everyone for reading! You guys are awesome!

**Before: Four Months Ago**

The good thing about it being five-thousand degrees outside, is that you pretty much get a free pass to veg-out inside and eat all the ice cream you want. Rogue, and all of the occupants of Rogue's head, agree upon this.

Though there is some debate over which ice cream to indulge in. Logan prefers strawberry, which both Erik and Rogue think is just ludicrous. _Strawberry ain't an ice cream, Sugah. It's a fruit._ Erik prefers anything with dark chocolate. _Belgian, if you can manage it, my dear._ Cody craves vanilla. Which every other occupant of her head (Rogue included) agree is as boring as the name implies. The two truckers, and the one diner waitress, don't really weigh in on the topic very much - not enough of 'em left in there to talk a lot - but she thinks they all would enjoy any kind of processed sugar they could get their hands on.

And Rogue doesn't disagree.

Plus, since she's got time to kill before the Beta team is scheduled for training, indulging her sweet-teeth seems like a phenomenal idea. Which is precisely what she is doing - propped up on one of the blessedly chilled metal stools in front of the kitchen island - when Jean walks in. Either freshly showered, or freshly in from the sauna outside, given her still-soaked hair, and slightly wet clothes. Rogue's gonna have to go with the former, on account of the scent of lilacs wafting off of her. No one can smell that good soaked in sweat, not even Jean.

"Ohhh! Is that Chunky Monkey?"

Rogue smiles around the spoon in her mouth, producing a garbled: "Uh-huh."

In the space of a heartbeat, the other woman makes for the freezer, and starts scuttling things around. "There any more?"

Rogue shakes her head, though Jean can't see her, buried neck deep in frozen vegetable patties, and loaves of bread as she is. "Nope, but I think I saw a carton of Half-Baked way in the back. Behind the frozen peas."

Jean pulls her head out of the freezer and leans back past the door, one sculpted eyebrow arching. "Hiding provisions for later, are we?"

"Mmmhmm." Rogue gestures in Jean's general direction with her spoon, a bit of frozen banana tumbling off of it, and onto the counter. "Dig around a bit beneath the package of collard greens, there's a stockpile of chocolate chips. If you're interested."

A squeal of delight is followed by a head first dive back into the freezer, the redhead yelling out in triumph when she finds her prize. Arms loaded with goodies, she closes the freezer door with her shoulder and joins Rogue at the island, settling down to prepare her own treat.

The next few minutes are spent debating the relative deliciousness of all the flavor's of Ben & Jerry's they can think of, with Rogue trading off her bottle of caramel syrup for the bag of chips Jean has commandeered - and generally having the most unhealthy and yet delicious afternoon snack either can think of - when Logan saunters into the scene.

The instantaneous stop he comes to upon spotting them, giggling like school girls and licking traces of chocolate from their respective spoons, makes Rogue burst into a full-bodied laugh. Whatever he'd been thinking of on his way into the kitchen must have been distracting enough that he didn't hear or smell them on his way in (which is damn near impossible, Rogue knows, her inner Logan chastising his counterpart for not paying attention, while also grumbling that he understands) and yet, by all appearances, it has now been completely forgotten.

He blinks dumbly for a few seconds, his mouth agape, as he continues to stand there staring at them; his oil-stained tank clinging to his broad chest, and his step frozen mid-stride. Like someone has pressed pause. As delicious as she finds the image, unable to hold herself back from licking her lips at the sight, she also finds that she can't help but poke fun at him for it . An internal growl egging her on, she takes a scoop of ice cream up with her spoon and waves it towards him. "Want some, Logan?" Was that her voice? All deep and sultry like that? Couldn't possibly have been...

Two more blinks. "Huh?"

Jean lets out a very unladylike snort, and bows her head closer to the table, a curtain of hair hiding her face from Logan's view, but not from Rogue, who can see the other woman doing her damnedest not to fall off her stool laughing. Cheeks turning the color of her hair as she holds herself in check.

Logan visibly shakes himself, eyes that had been dark pools a moment before, gaining back some focus as he completes his trek to the fridge. "No." A cough. "Thanks."

Rogue shrugs, and takes the bite for herself, moaning a little at the flavor. "Your loss."

From the depths of the fridge, where Logan has buried himself (Rogue is beginning to notice a pattern with people sticking half their body in the thing just to find something to eat - she knows from experience that you damn near have to go on an expedition just to find pickles), Rogue thinks she hears a mumble that could be an ' _I know_ ' though she isn't certain. The little half-laugh that Jean chokes on makes her think that maybe it was.

Eventually, Logan manages to find whatever he's looking for and moves on to the microwave. From the looks of it, Rogue thinks he's uncovered the leftover meat-loaf surprise from the night before. _Blech._ (The only problem with living in a school during the summer - even a boarding school as nice as the Professor's - was that inevitably some of the staff went on vacation, and the group meals were never quite as good as the rest of the year. Rogue isn't about to complain though, beats living on the streets any day.)

Logan pops his meal into the microwave and sets the thing, before turning back towards the pair of them, and leaning on the counter; his body back-lit by the light inside the little oven. Rogue beams a smile at him, before Jean and her take synchronized bites of ice cream, to which Logan just rolls his eyes. Whatever power they had over him before, now gone. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it a second later, opting just to grumble some more instead. And that makes her smile even more.

It amazes Rogue how just having him in the room with her has upped her enjoyment factor of the afternoon several notches. She loves it when he's home.

The little plate inside the microwave is tick-tick-ticking around in time with the digital countdown, when the whole thing sparks, then fizzles, and finally pops. Sending a spray of fireworks in Logan's direction. He jumps back, claws popping from between his knuckles with a 'snikt', and a low growl in his throat: "What the fuck!"

The overhead light in the kitchen blinks out next, and the regular whirring of the refrigerator comes to an abrupt stop. She groans. "Ugh. Not again, Timmy."

Logan's eyes are darting towards all the exits. Claws still sprung free, his whole body on alert for an attack. A stone of sympathy lodges in her throat at the sight. "Timmy? Who the hell is Timmy?"

The sound of the air conditioner kicking off a moment later plunges the whole room into a silence interrupted only by Logan's heavy breathing and occasional growls. Which she finds too damn sexy in any situation... Rogue lowers her head to the counter, dropping her forehead against it with a thunk. The last thing they need in this weather is to lose power in the place. She finds it hard enough to think sane thoughts when she isn't suffering a heat stroke.

When Jean speaks her voice has that far off quality that it gets with she's talking to someone in her head. "He's a student, Logan. Just started this year."

"And what? He blows up microwaves? Wha' the hell kinda mutation is that?"

"He's an electropath."

Rogue can hear the crinkle in Logan's brow when he speaks. "An awhatapath?"

Jean doesn't answer that time, Rogue figures she's too deep in her internal conversation at the moment so she takes over explaining, raising her head from the counter. "Electropath, Logan." She waves a hand at the light-bulb, and the burnt out microwave. "Means he talks with electronics. Can make 'em do what he wants."

His whole body freezes for a moment, his stare a thousand miles long, stuck on some thought that Rogue can't grasp. She knows that look, knows what it means. The Logan in her head bristling. A memory is tickling the edge of his mind, just out of reach. She aches at the knowledge that he can't grab a hold of it. That they always slip through his fingers like mist. She wishes she could get it back for him. Wishes she could do something to fill the gaps.

The chased memory lost again, he arches a brow, and crosses his arms over his chest, highlighting every inch of muscle in the too-tight tank he wears, still sweat-slicked and dirt-smudge. Despite herself, Rogue has to swallow back the tiny pool of saliva that forms in her mouth at the sight. _Down girl._ "There a reason he decided to explode my damn lunch?"

Rogue shrugs, but it's Jean who answers, internal conversation obviously done. And she hasn't gone running, so Rogue thinks that must be a good sign. "He can't control it yet, Logan. He's young, and his power isn't stable. Though, this is the first incident we've had in awhile."

"Why the hell haven't I heard of 'im?"

Jean sweeps both hands through her hair, pushing the long strands behind her ears, the ends of them brushing against the counter. "You haven't exactly been here that often, Logan."

He frowns, "I'm around."

"Logan, you go out every night, and can't be found most of the day." Jean's matter-of-fact statement is coated in reproach. Seeing the way that Logan's back straightens, and his body goes tense, Rogue decides to cut off that line of conversation before it escalates into a full argument. The day has been a good one so far, and she doesn't want to see it tainted by tired debate that never goes anywhere.

"Last time was about a week before you got back, Logan. He's gettin' better at it, probably have everythin' back up and runnin' in a few." She turns to Jean, looking for confirmation. "Right?"

"Mmm. He's fine. Just got a little spooked by some of the boys playing by the pool; they threw him in. 'Ro's with him now."

As if on cue, the light flickers back on, and the fridge and AC come back to life. The microwave, however, just sputters before sparking again, and going out. Rogue grins, and aims for cheerful. "See? Everythin's fine, and just one little appliance casualty. Not so bad."

Logan snorts, and snatches his partially heated meal from the remains of the microwave, staring at it before shrugging, grabbing a fork and a stool, and digging in. Any agitation, or broiling anger, dispersed in favor of mystery meat for Logan, and ice cream for Jean.

Rogue licks the last remnants of ice cream from her spoon, and crosses the room to the sink. Rinsing the bowl carefully around her gloves (she's wearing cotton today, and they don't dry that easy), before fumbling it into the dishwasher. She makes her way over to Logan and bumps him with her hip. "We hittin' up Mickey's tonight?"

He glances up at her, dark eyes gone bright with an air of mischief. "Nah, Darlin', some of the boys up that way found two brain cells to rub together. Better lay off there a while. I gotta 'nother place we can check out. Should be decent."

She nods, doing her best to suppress the little shiver of joy that runs through her every time _Darlin'_ passes his lips (that, combined with all the time they've been spending out lately, has kept her in a perpetual good mood), and pats him once on the shoulder, knowing she'll be late if she doesn't get a move on. "Meet you later, then."

"Where you goin'?"

She turns around, walking backwards out of the room. "Danger room session, Sugah." He lifts the corner of his mouth in an almost smile when she gives him a wave and a wink before completing her exit.

She hasn't quite made it out of hearing distance when she catches Jean's laughing voice. "You got some happiness on your mouth there, Logan. Looks good on you."

Logan's growled, _"Can it, Jeannie"_ is audible for quite a bit longer.

~~~\/~~~

Rogue doesn't get to find out just how gullible the patrons of the newest pool hall Logan had planned for them to infiltrate are. Instead, she spends half the night up and waiting for the Alpha team to get back from a last minute mission.

Spends half the night waiting to make sure everyone of them gets back in one piece, knowing she won't be able to sleep otherwise.

But when they return...when they return she finds out that they didn't. Not all of them. And when it is Logan that is wheeled out on a gurney, looking like he went twelve rounds with a farm combine and lost, she's so shocked she can't even scream.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

**After: Day 5**

They are trying. They are all trying so very, very hard. And it makes her ache. Makes her want to stomp and cry, and plead and beg them to let up. To let go. To let her just be. But she doesn't have the strength. Doesn't have the strength, so she goes along with it. A paper-doll pantomiming life.

Pantomiming a life filled with routine. Filled with a routine not unlike before... _before_...but infinitely so different now that it is after...

_After._

In the morning, she gets up. She gets up, and she sits in her bed, and she lowers her feet to the ground. She lowers her feet to the ground and she pads over to the door. Because on the other side, on the other side is Logan. Always. Always Logan. Waiting for her. Sometimes looking as lost and disheveled as she feels, and other times doing a better job with his pantomiming skills.

She pads to the door, and she lets him in, and she makes her way to the bathroom. Leaving him to sit on her bed, or her desk, or her windowsill. Or to just stand awkwardly in the middle of the room if that's what he chooses.

She doesn't really know what he does while he is out there, waiting. She only knows that she finds him in a different spot every time.

She goes into the bathroom, and she looks into the medicine cabinet while she brushes her teeth. Looks in the medicine cabinet because there is no mirror there to look at anymore. Not since that first day. That first day when Logan had brought her to her room - brought her to her room swaddled in only the white terry-cloth towel that had been at hand when she was sitting naked on a bathroom floor in the med-lab, and laughing until she cried.

That first day when he had carried her to her room, and set her down on unsteady legs, and she had wandered into the bathroom. Wandered into the bathroom, taken one look in the mirror, and screamed. Screamed and yelled and raged at the shiny surface. Hands balled up into tight little fists as she launched herself at it. The shards scattering and spraying and slicing.

The stitches come out in two to five days.

And it is so odd. The itching that her skin feels around the pieces of thread. Such seemingly insignificant little things, tying and knotting, and keeping her together. She is aware of them, constantly. Wants to pull at them. Pull and pull and pull, until she unravels.

It wasn't so long ago that she wouldn't have needed them. Wasn't so long ago that the glass would have bounced off her, and fallen harmlessly to the floor. Wasn't so long ago that she would have heard a chiding voice in her head when she flinched and blubbered like a little girl at the pain.

Wasn't so long ago. But that's all done now.

They are all gone now.

The teaming masses that piled in her head. One over the other over the other over the other. Silenced.

"Marie?"

She blinks, and leans over to rinse the frothy debris from her mouth. Takes a moment to watch it swirl down the drain. Not bothering to answer him even when he calls a second time, a sharp rap of knuckles against the door.

She wipes her mouth, and her hands, on a towel, and pulls the door open. Logan is standing just on the other side. Always. Brows pinched tight together, and a frown etched upon his face. The mass of him takes up the door frame, the tips of his boots landing just shy of her uncovered toes. His presence fills up all her senses. Heat, dark, tobacco and pine. A steady breath of air. One drag in, one push out. She wants to curl up and into him. Wants to cling to the familiar that he represents. Bury herself in the safety, in the surety, that is Logan.

The hand at her shoulder, shaking her out of her daze, is much too tentative to be his. She is certain. But when she opens her eyes, it is still the wall of him before her. It is Logan's smooth palm grasping at the cotton of her shirt. It is his warmth she is leeching through his skin and the material, and into herself.

She is still leeching things from him.

"Come on, Kid." Eyes too soft, and voice too low with concern. Logan shouldn't ever sound like that. Look like that.

Defeated.

"Grub's on, time to eat."

She nods. Of course. Breakfast is the next part of the routine.

She takes a moment to pull on a pair of thick socks, and throws a sweatshirt on over her upper body, leaving the sweatpants she slept in alone. Logan's brow doesn't furrow, doesn't crease, like it did that first day. That first day she left her room, which was really the second day she was back. That time he had asked her why. Asked her what the hell was up with all the layers.

" _I'm cold."_

He hasn't asked again since.

~~~\/~~~

There are stares, and whispers, and fearful eyes when she wanders the school.

Or at least, she thinks there should be.

Instead, everyone just looks on with either pity or concern or confusion. Or they don't look on at all. And she really has no idea what is worse.

After the slow-boiling torture that is breakfast. Where she picks and nibbles, and attempts to swallow down solid food while fighting the urge to gag - flinching at anyone that comes too close, and Logan growling to warn them off - she moves onto the med-lab.

She moves onto the med-lab where Jean - and now Hank, newly arrived from Washington - try to unravel the mystery that is her, with little to no success. Logan pacing and grumbling and snarling every time they go near her with a needle, and her turning her mind off. Tuning out, shutting down, so that they can do their job.

Shuts down so they can their job, and she can get out of there. Out from under the too-bright lights and the too-clean smell, and get back to her room. Back to her room, where it is quiet and warm and the empty spaces inside of her don't seem so large.

Seem more like craters, and less like black holes.

But that isn't part of the routine, so that isn't what happens. Instead, she hangs back. Hangs back and waits. Waits while Logan paces. And Jean and Hank pour over files. Her files. And she wonders what it is that they don't say, that those sheets of paper don't tell the people in front of her, that they keep trying to figure out. That they spend an hour, or more a day, trying to learn.

When they are done, Jean, with a look of sympathy so keen that Marie wants to comfort the other woman, releases her for the day. Releases her to the next part of her routine.

A routine that includes Logan walking with her to meet the Professor. Walks, guides, escorts. A hand so large that it spans her whole lower back, pressed lightly to the small of her spine as they move. Step after step, tile after tile, through the mansion and to Xaviar's office. Leaves her at the door with a grimace that is probably meant to be a smile, and tells her he'll see her in an hour.

She wonders if he merely sits outside the room and waits. Listens. Or if he goes somewhere else. Somewhere else to burn off the tension that coils around him like a snake.

Her wondering is answered ten minutes later, when instead of drinking her usual afternoon tea with the Professor and pretending she can taste it, and him trying to get her to open up about what happened without ever calling her a murderer, she starts to scream.

She starts to scream and writhe and flail. Words and phrases and epithets spilling forth from her in English and German and French. Her body hitting the floor, and her spine arching up off of it; an electroshock of pain. Her skin flickering from blue to green to porcelain pale.

And then Logan is there. Logan is there, hovering over her, a look of fear such as she has never seen before on his face.

Logan is there. Watching over her. Like always.

~TBC


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I spent the entire weekend sick with a fever. You probably wouldn't think the first thing I would do upon being able to form coherent sentences again would be to sit down and polish this chapter. But that's exactly what I did. This thing has EATEN MY BRAIN FOLKS. Again, while this is still post-X1, there are definite comics inspired parts. A big THANK YOU to everyone for reading! Seriously, you rock :-)

  
**Before: Three Months Ago**   


"I'm fine."

"Logan, you are not fine. You nearly died!" She whirls on him, one finger tapping away at his chest, both feet planted firmly to the ground so that she can avoid stomping like a child. Like she wants to. "Jean says-"

He snorts, his typical 'you're an idiot' snort, and it pisses her off. She can feel heat rushing to her cheeks, staining them with her indignation. "Jeannie exaggerates."

"You were out for three weeks, Logan. Three. Weeks. That is **not** an exaggeration, Sugah. **That** is a coma."

He growls, low and deep. The sound reverberating off the walls and into her bones in a tingly vibration that makes her shiver. His shoulders are tense, rigid. The veins running down his arms popping out as he flexes them. Looking like he might reach for her, and thinking better of it.

He looks so healthy. So damned healthy, and it scares her. Scares her that he can seem so fine. Seem so put-together, scowling at her in the middle of the library, when he was barely sitting up a day ago. When he had more tubes and wires and liquid drugs running into his veins then he had muscle to cover them, just two weeks ago. When he was rolled in, no breath in his lungs and no beat in his heart, less than a month ago. It scares the hell out of her.

And it pisses her off that he is being so damn casual about it. If she wasn't so unfathomably happy that he's actually alive and _arguing_ with her, she'd beat him senseless.

There's a tell-tale twitching of a hairy eyebrow, and she responds by balling her hands in fists. Whether to keep herself from throttling him, or in preparation for a punch, depends on his next statement. He heaves a sigh, before running a hand down his face, from brown to chin, taking a moment to scratch at the unkempt hair along his cheeks. "Look, Rogue, I know you were worried-"

"Don't you 'Rogue' me, _Wolverine."_ She hisses the words at him, and she thinks she can truly understand the phrase 'spitting mad' right at that moment. She's inhaling large gulps of air just trying to keep herself from screaming. "You're not invincible, no matter how much you like to pretend you are." She lifts a hand into his face and wiggles her fingers at him. "I've proved that before, haven't I? And if you saw...if you saw..." Her voice cracks, and she hates herself a little for that, but sucks it up. Sucks up the anger and channels it outward, towards the idiot in front of her that doesn't seem to get how close he came to leaving her alone. "If you saw how messed up you were, after what that...that-"

"Carbantium?" He offers the name up to her with a tease in his voice. Arms crossing loosely in front of his chest, puffing it out like an over-sized peacock on the prowl. A playful glint in his eyes. Like it's all a big joke. It makes her want to slap him.

"...that _poison_ did to you. How bad it screwed you up? You wouldn't be cracking jokes, and waltzing around here like it was no big deal."

"Because it's not."

"It is!"

"I heal, Darlin'. Always have done, always will. Sometimes just takes a little longer than others. "

She huffs out a breath, ready to lay into him again. Ready to beat some God-damn sense into his metal-coated skull. Make him understand that this wasn't like before. That this was like nothin' else she'd ever seen. Was like nothin' she ever wanted to see again. It makes her head and her heart and her soul throb to think about.

She wants to describe to him, in as much nauseating detail as she can handle, how his flesh was a checkerboard of wounds. How the blood meant to be pumping in his veins was dripping in slow, sickly rivers out of them instead. Did he have any idea how many packets of blood Jean went through, just for transfusions those first days? Trying to pour back into him all that he had lost.

But she can see that it doesn't matter. That none of that will take. His patience with her arguments has come to an end, she can tell. His mouth pulled into a too-thin line, and jaw ticking every few seconds. His fingers twitching around a cigar that isn't there. She sees his eyes darken, and his nostrils flare. His gaze scanning her quickly, before it flickers towards the exit, like he's got somewhere else he'd rather be. Like he's just waiting for her to give, for her will to bend to his, so that he can get a move on. And she finds that she doesn't have the energy anymore.

"You know what? Forget it. If you aren't going to give a damn about yourself, then I'm not gonna waste my breath. I got better things to do." She can hear her words slurring into that deeper drawl that always takes over when she's feeling emotional, and she hates herself for that too. Because he can read her like a damn book even when she doesn't give him a how-to manual.

"Kid-"

She waves him off. "No, Logan. You wanna play at being an indestructible asshole, then be my guest. I'm not gonna watch." And then she's turning. Turning away from the argument, turning away from him. She can feel tears of frustration threatening at the corners of her eyes, and she'll be damned if he seems them fall, not when he doesn't seem to give two shits about-

Her thoughts are cut off mid-stream when a warm, heavy hand wraps around her wrist and tugs her back. Back around, and into him. She has no time, no time at all, to process the fact that Logan is stopping her oh-so-dramatic exit, before his lips are on hers. Pressing down, down. Lips too soft to belong to a man as gruff as Logan, melding with hers. The surprise of it - the unexpected act of kissing Logan, actually honest-to-God _kissing Logan_ \- makes her gasp. A desperate search for much needed air. But it's useless. He doesn't give her the moment she needs to breathe. No. Instead, instead his tongue finds its way to hers. Touching, tasting, wrapping around hers in a dueling dance.

There is heat and warmth and wet and want all wrapped up in him, in her, and she feels herself falling. Falling closer to him, falling into him. And she has a moment, a space as wide as two heartbeats, to give herself over to it. Give herself over to the thing she wants, but never dares to take. Only a moment, before a tingle, the tiniest of sparks that is not at all related to the searing need burning up between them, brings her back to the present, and she yanks herself away. As far away as she can, which isn't much, given how tight Logan's one hand is wrapped around her lower back, pressing her into him.

Her one hand is trapped in the vice-grip of his, the other is stuck between them, fingers curled against the cloth covering his chest. She has no idea how it even got there. But she uses it now to push against him, to try and pull away, and get some distance. Her voice, breathless though it may be, hitting the pitch of a dog whistle as she yells at him. "Logan! What the hell ya thinkin'? I'll hurt you!"

His words are a rough baritone, deep and thick. Entrancing her nerves, and pulling her in. "You won't." And then his lips are back on hers. Sliding, and nipping, and tugging. The hand at the small of her back moves upwards, tangling in her hair. Holding her head to his.

And she wants - oh dear God in heaven - she _wants_ it. Wants him, every last breath and inch of him, to be hers. Wants to wrap herself around him now, and have him still be there tomorrow.

One second ticks on into the next, and she thinks maybe she can have it. Thinks she can sip on the whole of him, take her fill, and leave him still standing. But nothing has ever been that easy for her. Never will be, she thinks, as she feels all of him pouring into her. Thoughts and memories and feelings. A scream she can't voice echoing in her head.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

If asked, Logan couldn't explain what possessed him to kiss her. Couldn't put words to the way that her anger, her frustration, her concern - _for him_ \- got his blood racing, and his hormones battling themselves beneath his skin. The entire time she was yelling at him - wispy white hairs stuck to her face by the little bits of spittle that came flying from her mouth, pupils dilated with anger - he warred with his instincts. Instincts screaming for him to grab her and show her just alive he really was. Just how little she needed to worry.

He tried to couch it in a tease, blow it off, dispel all that fear that was brewing beneath her surface. But that only made her angry, which in turn made his internal struggle worse.

All of which was amplified by his own mounting frustration and agitation. Because the truth of it was, that as flattered as a part of him was over her worry, it also ticked him off. Ticked him off to be reminded that he'd been down for the count. Taken out by a bunch of bastards too well prepared and too well funded, to be anything other than government pricks.

He thought he had it under control. Thought he'd be able to push her buttons just enough to be able to get the hell away from her. Far, far away. Where the chances of him doing anything stupid would be kept at a minimum. He'd be doing a damn decent job of just that recently, or so he'd thought. But then she'd turned away. Turned away, and the crisp, over-ripe scent of sadness, of resignation, of _disappointment_ flooded off of her. And he wanted it gone. Wanted it gone, and replaced with anything else.

And so he'd kissed her. He'd kissed her, and with barely the first brush of his mouth against hers, he'd forgotten every reason why he never had before.

He wouldn't be able to explain any of that, if asked. It would just come out in a grumbled: _"Mind your own damn business."_

He hasn't had enough time to register what any of it means before she pulls away. She pulls away, and he can't let that happen. Doesn't want her to go. So he draws her back in.

He growls - a low, pleased sound - when her body melts into his. When she gives in and kisses him back. He really doesn't give a damn when the pull starts. There is pain, like a slow siphoning that starts at the soles of his feet, and racing up through his mouth and into her, but it's negligible compared to what he has recently recovered from. And so he keeps right on kissing her. Or, at least he would, if she'd let him. But of course she doesn't.

She pulls away, _again_ , and this time he doesn't have the energy to drag her back in. This time his forehead falls to hers as he sucks in a sharp breath of air. He can feel his legs trembling and his hands shaking where they clutch at her. A moment of weakness he'd never be comfortable sharing with anyone else.

Her breath is heated and sweet where it ghosts against his face. The mint of her toothpaste mingled with his own leftover scent. A new flavor he won't ever get enough of. "You shouldn'ta done that, Logan."

"'M not sorry." It's all he can manage, the only words he can form. When he can peel his eyes open to lock onto her own, he expects a few things. Hopes for a few things.

He knows what he felt when they kissed, knows what he wants. Knows what he _thinks_ she wants too. And it's on the tip of his tongue to offer it to her. To throw it out there, and see if they can make it stick. Make it work.

But there is a hooded, closed off look in her eyes. And the intoxicating scent of lust, want, _need_ that had been permeating the air before, is now doused in icy shards of sadness.

She loosens the grip of her hand from his own, and lets it drop slowly from her; uses her other to push him back, and get him steady on his feet. The sense of loss he feels when he is no longer in contact with her, shocks him.

"But I am, Logan." And she means it. If her scent didn't give her away, then her eyes plainly would. She means it. She's sorry.

And then she is gone. Out the door, shoes slapping on hardwood in a smacking sound that gets further away, faster and faster every second, until it's gone. Out of range.

Logan is still standing in the library, hands clenched, and knuckles itching - trying to catch his breath, and figure out what the hell just happened - when a shuffling sound at his back reminds him that living in a mansion with telepaths means you're never really alone.

"In or out, Jeannie. Pick one."

"Wasn't sure if I'd be welcome, thought you might want some privacy."

He snorts. _Privacy._ "That whatcha callin' it these days?"

He waits for her to come into view, but she doesn't, instead she stays where she is, half-in, half-out of the room. Waiting on him. And despite his best efforts, his head turns in her direction, followed by the rest of his body. Finds her lounging in the doorway that Marie didn't run through.

"You had everyone worried, Logan. All of us." There is nothing but sincerity in her voice, in her scent. And he is reminded that he considers this woman a friend - even with the awful habit of sticking her nose where it doesn't belong.

"But Rogue barely left your side." He knew that. He did. She was the first person he saw when he woke up, and damn it all if it looked like she hadn't slept the whole time he'd been out. "Is it really any surprise that she doesn't want to see you hurt again anytime soon?"

Friends or not, if she's implying what he thinks she is, he isn't gonna let that slide; so the growl he gives her is about as far from friendly as it gets. "Careful, Jean."

Arms that were laced loosely in front of her drop to her sides, and sway with her body as she makes her way towards him, stopping half-way. "All I'm saying, Logan, is to give her time. Maybe a little space. Let her have that."

He takes a step in her direction, hairs on the back of his neck rising with his anger. "What the hell for?"

One long-fingered hand reaches out to him. circling partway around his forearm. The sensation of skin-on-skin contact off-putting, and not at all what he wants right then. "Nearly losing someone you love can be hard on a person, Logan."

"It ain't like that." Of course, he thinks, that's exactly what it's like. He just doesn't see where it's any of Jeannie's business. He shucks off her hand from his arm, and brushes past her, determination leaking into his bones. Him and Marie are gonna have a talk. Now.

"She's not here, you know. The Professor gave her an assignment earlier. Said she was gonna stop on her way out, let you know where she was going. Didn't want you to worry."

"What?"

"Recon mission with Kitty." At his growl, she raises both hands in a defensive gesture. "Nothing rough. Guess she didn't mention it? Must of gotten distracted before she could. I wonder by what?"

Her playful tone would piss him off, but he's already past caring. Instead, his thoughts are back on Marie. Pissed at himself for picking a fight before she left, and for maybe making a mess of things. Pissed that he didn't follow after her when she walked out. She's been gone ten minutes, and he's already missing her. Can't help but wonder how long she'll be gone.

"She should be back in a couple of days."

The tone of Jean's voice is soft, placating. He starts for the door again anyway. "Stay outta my head, Jeannie."

"I don't have to go in your head to read you, Logan. Not when it involves Rogue."

That may be true, but the muffled gasp she lets off when he tosses a few choice phrases her way - without opening his mouth - proves that she still isn't above digging.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

  
**After: Day 10**   


Her head is swimming. Sloshing back and forth. To and fro. Like waves pounding at rocks. Like too many fists knock, knock, knocking away at her walls. Beggars trying to gain entry. She doesn't want to let them in.

"Bullshit."

"Now, Logan, I'm sure that Jean-"

"Shove it, Chuck. It's been five days, and you're all still giving me excuses."

"Logan-"

A growling; tense, on edge. Familiar. "No! I wanna know what the hell is wrong with her. Something. Anything. You gotta have a _theory_ by now."

"I find it is be best to save speculations until such a time as they have been given some basis in fact."

"You wanna try that again in English, Furball?"

"What Hank is saying, Logan, what we have all _been_ saying, is that we don't **know** what's wrong with Rogue. We aren't keeping you in the dark; you know as much as we do. You want us to guess, and we aren't in the habit of doing that."

"Try."

A scuffling. Yells. Shouting that reverberates off the inside of her mind. Inside her skull. Makes her ears ring. She wants to open her eyes, but she can't. She can't. And with that realization comes panic. A searing, suffocating, panic. Why can't she open her eyes? Why? Why why _whywhywhy_?

A calming thought rushes past all her gates and guards and wards. _Shh, Darlin', it'll be all right._ And she believes it, she folds herself into its warmth, and let's herself relax. Tries again.

"Keep your hands off my wife, Wolverine!"

"Tell your wife to keep her fingers outta my brain then, One-Eye."

"Gentleman, please. Calm down. Now, if we can just behave like the rational adults I know we _all_ are..."

She tries again. Tries to open her eyes. And when that doesn't work, she tries to remember why she can't. Slowly, oh-so-very, very slowly, memories begin to shuffle their way back into place.

 _A little girl, no more than four, a skinned knee and an overturned big-wheel by her side. Fat droplets of tears spilling down her cheeks, as her father rushes to her aide. Scooping her up into his arms, and cradling her to his chest. "Shh, sweetheart. It's fine, Marie. Daddy's here. Daddy's here."_

One at a time, they fall.

 _She is a boy named Max. The rain that falls freezes her skin, but there is nothing that she can do about that. Her clothes are threadbare, soaked straight through; the yellow star stitched to the shirt is nearly black with mud. Her mother, curled up by her side, is as cold as she is. As scared. But she doesn't cry out, so neither does Max. Max will sit, and wait, and try not to worry about what will happen to them next._

Slip, stumble, back into place.

" _Yo! Carol! You're up." Fresh out of OCS, she is at a bar with the rest of her class. One last night of drunken debauchery, before they go their separate ways. It's late and she'll likely regret it in the morning. But she's young, and can bounce back quick. She turns her head from the open sky outside, to the row of shots lined up with her friends, waiting for her return. She grins. Whatever happens, the headache'll be worth it._

"-Our best...guess...is that whatever they did to turn her powers off, it's backfiring."

"No shit. You pay ninety thousand for that degree, Doc?"

"Actually, it was closer to-"

"I know it's **backfiring** , damn it!" A sound of metal splitting flesh, accompanied by that same familiar, angry growl. "I was **there** when she started speaking in tongues, and flipping through skin colors like a damn crayola box. I've read the file. I know how many people they forced her to absorb. What I don't know is how they shut if off in the first place, or why the hell it's coming back. And what I don't get is why the hell haven't any of you? It's been nearly two weeks since we found her, you tellin' me there hasn't been enough time to-"

"She wasn't the only one locked in that facility, you know that, Logan. We have had other concerns..."

 _Her body is submerged, held down beneath the surface in a glass tub. She can hear laughter, and the tinkling of glasses. She doesn't know why she is here. Doesn't know what it is they want. But she knows fear. Knows fear so thick that she chokes on it. Chokes on it, until she bursts forth from the constraints holding her down only to find that she is laying on a bed, in a room that reeks of day-old sex and nicotine. She takes quick, steady breaths to ease her racing heart, and relax her muscles. Feels her claws slide back into place. She lays back, wrapping a fist around the tags at her throat. She might not have any memory to go off of, but at least she has them._

She cries out, but no one can hear her. She tries again.

 _Her skin - her horrid, green skin - is being pelted by stones, and her cries of 'no! please! stop!' fall on deaf ears, like always. So she curls up tighter in a ball. Hoping that eventually they will get bored. That their taunts of 'Mort-a-smear' will grow old, and they will wonder off to find more exciting game. Experience has taught her that it takes roughly fifteen minutes before that ever happens. She's got twelve to go._

"So, what? You telling me we just gotta wait?"

"I know that it's not an easy concept, Logan. But at this point, I'm not sure there's any other choice."

"Bullshit. I thought you said you could help her. Thought you said you _would_."

"I said we could _try_."

 _She didn't want to leave home, she didn't want to leave, but after exploding the television for the third time (could she help it if she got excited whenever the Devils won?) her parents seemed to think it was a good idea, so she packed her things, and she went. She went. Course, she never expected the school she was being shipped off to would turn out to be in a_ mansion _of all things. "Welcome to Xavier's, Timothy. We hope you'll like it here." Looking at the white-haired goddess in front of her, Timmy thinks maybe she will._

"-Lost in her own head-"

"So bring her back!"

"Don't you think we would have already, if we could-"

 _She's twenty, and the mission is supposed to be easy. Recon, mostly. Plus a small amount of hacking. Between the two of them, there shouldn't be any problems. Get in, get out, get back. Nothing to it. Except there's someone waiting for her. Not for Kitty. Not for the two of them. Not for any other X-Man, save possibly one. But for_ her _. Though they'd gladly take any they could get their hands on.._

"-It's not that easy."

"Why the hell not?"

 _The darts they shoot at them, go straight through Kitty, phasing out as her companion initiates emergency protocols and tries to get clear, like they were trained. But they hit Rogue in the chest, and neck. Her back hits the ground with a thud, her head follows a millisecond later with a thwack._

She gasps, trying to suck in air through a mouth that won't cooperate. Won't open. Can feel the muscles that control her eyelids struggling against the weight pinning them down. All around her, arguing.

" _Hello, Ms. D'Ancanto. It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard good things. Very, very good things." She doesn't recognize the man hovering over her, but she recognizes the emblem on his coat. Recognizes it from the pages of images and text that Logan uncovered the last time he went out in search of his past, and came back empty-handed, or so he'd said (he'd blown that line all to hell the minute he'd kissed her)._

"What the hell's happening? What's wrong with her! ?"

"She's seizing."

"Logan - give them some room. They need to work."

 _She's being tossed, carried, pushed, and pulled. Her head fuzzy with drugs, disoriented. She tries to struggle, to get loose. Free. But her limbs are bound too tight to allow any movement, and her muscles are still too lethargic from the shit they pumped into her. Wherever they are taking her, whatever happens there, it won't be good._

"Her heart rate's dropping, Hank give me-"

 _The cell is small. Eight foot wide, by ten foot long. A tiny shelf in the back with a pad on it that she guesses must be a cot. A plastic latrine near the front. There are no doors. No windows. Just a camera in the upper right-hand corner, with a tiny speaker._

"No! Marie!"

" _Welcome to Weapon Plus, Ms. D'Ancanto. We hope you enjoy your stay."_

She gasps. Her lungs swell. She blinks. The light is too bright, it burns.

She opens her eyes.

She wakes up.

~TBC


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in this one getting posted, but we are getting to the home stretch now. Just a couple of chapters to go after this! As always, THANK YOU to everyone for reading! You guys make my days better :-D

  
**Missing: Month One**   


It's been twenty-seven days since Marie's been gone. Logan's patience was severed by the razor-edged rage that overtook him on day four.

There is a world of difference between being generally unpleasant to be around, and being downright homicidal. Something the residents of Xavier's school have become intimately aware of lately.

Twenty-seven days. In that time, they've tracked down leads to three different labs. The first two didn't turn up shit. Facilities long-empty, water dripping down into the cracked plaster and concrete walls, the stench of mildew and old-death lingering in the air. And the third...

The third is currently in the process of being ransacked by one pissed off Wolverine, and a team of overly-cautious X-Men.

The buzzing of the piece of plastic in Logan's ear is accompanied by Cyclops even tenor. "Third floor - all clear, everyone hold position."

Logan growls, frustration and adrenaline fueling his movements as he prowls the corridor. Five steps up, five steps back. An even march in front of the electronically sealed door blocking his way to the cells beneath the lab. Already he's overturned four suites worth of high-end research equipment, and mowed down a dozen guards. (The rest of the X-Men can play it stupid all they want, and take them down gently, he's not nearly so forgiving.) All that's left is for Cyke and Kitty to work their mojo up in the server room, and let him the hell through, so he can clear out what's left, and maybe, just maybe, find Marie.

Everything else he manages to accomplish is an incidental bonus.

His muscles are tense, the fibers laying beneath the surface of his skin, bunched up and waiting to spring. Claws dragging deep grooves into the wall as he moves. Little sparks jumping out with each swipe. His upper lip curls back in a snarl every few seconds that the damn red light above the door stays lit. He's giving the geek squad exactly ten more seconds to turn off the security feeding into the door, and then he's slicing through it, high voltage or not.

Fifty-thousand volts to the head would be preferable to keeping still any longer. It's only the thought that Marie may be on the other side, and in need of him as more than a pile of drooling indifference, that keeps him from plowing onward, warnings be damned.

There's a click, click, clicking sound, and then the light turns from red to green. Cyclops yammering some caution or other in his ear, but he doesn't register it. Too busy barreling through the door and into the cell block on the other side.

Six mutants in total. All of them stinking of fear, pain, abuse.

Not a one of them Marie.

One lone guard at the end, an awful shot. But when you have seventeen bullets, and no obstacles in your way, you don't need to be anything else.

Unfortunately for the guard, it takes more than that to put down an angry Wolverine.

Unfortunately for Logan, there is nothing at all satisfying about the lack of a fight the man puts up when he has eighteen inches of adamantium sunk in his gut.

And when Logan pulls them back out, with a slick, popping sound, he finds that he can't relax his tendons enough to get them to retract.

He's breathing hard, huge panting inhales and exhales of air that do nothing to calm him - just force the antiseptic smell of the place deeper into his lungs - reminds him that she's not here - when the Boy Scout and Company finally arrive. He shoulders past them, claws still extended, a gnarled "no" his only response to the team's request for his assistance in getting the lab-rats outta their cages, and back on the jet.

The team scowls, judging, think he's doing it to be a bastard. Thinks he just doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself, and Marie.

And maybe they're right, but still the last thing any of those tortured S.O.B.'s need is to get filleted by one of their rescuers.

Even he isn't that much of an asshole.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

"Subject 752-90-33. Submitted for procedure number twenty-one. Goal is the assessment of absorption parameters and length of sustainability. Time is...15:52. How are you feeling today Ms. D'Ancanto?"

"Fuck you." Her lips are cracked, split down the middle and along the side. There is no saliva in her mouth to hurl at the man leaning over her supine body, so she spits the words at him instead, hoping some blood will leak out the edges and find its way to his smiling face.

No such luck.

"Tsk. Tsk. Now, is that any way for a proper young lady, such as yourself, to behave?"

The drugs pumping around in her veins have sapped her of her energy, of muscle control, so she is helpless to do anything but curl back her lip in a borrowed snarl. It's the best she can manage, and she doubts Logan would mind.

"I asked you a question, Ms. D'Ancanto. How are you feeling today? Any side-effects after yesterday's procedures that we should be aware of?"

 _Ya mean after you made me suck that poor woman dry? After you poured her mind, and soul, and memories into me? Are you asking, dickface, if I'm feeling any side-effects after you made me commit murder, for the sake of your sick, twisted little experiments? No. Not a one._

 _By the way, she says hello._

She doesn't say any of that, can't possibly string enough words together around too tender lips and a too parched tongue to manage such a tirade, but it doesn't matter.

He doesn't really give a shit anyhow. The Malibu-Ken smile on his face tells her that much.

"None? Good, good. Now, if you will just raise your right arm." And because they know she lacks the coordination to do it herself, someone raises it for her. She can't turn her head to see who's responsible. Just feels latex slide along the exposed skin of her forearm, the hairs lining it standing up on end with the touch as the limb is tugged ever higher, until she's saluting the ceiling.

Tiny electrodes are suctioned along the length of it, slicked with some sort of gel. They are carefully maneuvered around the injection ports located at her elbow, and wrist. Her arm is lowered, and she manages to gain just enough control to curl numb fingers into the starchy fabric encasing the mattress. A few minutes pass, and the procedure is repeated on her other arm. Then down both legs, and finally her face, and chest. The asshole in charge humming the whole time.

"Now then, this might pinch a bit at first. But trust me, this is better than the alternative."

The 'pinch' builds slow, pins and needles pricking along her body, growing until it beats through her with the gentleness of three-hundred cattle prods. Makes her mind jump and shiver - familiar images of a cold-metal slab, and a man laughing in German nearby, fizzle through her head before being replaced, overlapped, by more recent ones. A slim, fair-headed woman, whipping through the air with nothing between her and the clouds but a gray jumpsuit; laughter in her throat. Surprised at the sudden loss of muscle control, the woman falls. Twists, tumbles through the air. Her body reaching a speed which a helpful voice in Marie's mind describes as 'terminal velocity' before she makes contact with the pavement. The sound of the thud echoes in Marie's ears. Again. And again. And again.

The foggy face of the man the woman sees when she opens her eyes is the same man currently hovering over Marie.

She sucks in a lungful of oxygen through the mask over her mouth, opening her jaw wide on a scream that refuses to be given life. _Hush up, girl. Don't give 'em the satisfaction._ Instead what pours out over her sandpapery tongue is: "Carol Danvers. Captain. United States Air Force. 987-65-4328." in rigid, mid-western tones.

"Retention rate of mutation, still 100%. Please, make a note that it has been 26 hours since absorption.

"You are doing very well, Ms. D'Ancanto. Very, very well. My superiors will be pleased. In fact, if I am not mistaken, I think that the success of this most recent absorption may just entice them to move to the next phase of your training."

The burst of fear that explodes in Marie's stomach at those words is smothered by the burning hate that blazes to life in its wake. Someone lifts her arm, holds it steady while a syringe is attached to one of her injection ports, a wave of fluid throbs through her veins.

The last thing she sees, before the welcoming arms of unconsciousness engulf her, is her captor's perfect teeth.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

  
**After: Day 11**   


Extended time in the medlab makes parts of Logan's brain twitch uncomfortably. Disturbs memories buried deep within his subconscious. Misty edged thoughts taunting him, forever out of reach.

The incandescent lights glare off the equipment like sun on snow. Bouncing back. Causing a pulsating ache behind his corneas. And the smell. That sickly-sweet antibacterial wash that coats all available surfaces - cut by the bitter, icy scent of rubbing alcohol - is thick enough to choke on.

But right now, Logan doesn't give a shit about any of that. Not with Marie's exhausted body stretched out on the cot in front of him. Wires and tubes, connecting her to all manners of machines. Beeping out their steady stream of nonsense. He doesn't need a digital read out to tell him what his nose can.

Stable. Tired. Drained.

Alive.

He feels the same way.

Worn down, gravity having its way with his metal-lined bones, making it hard for him to keep his head up. Eyes open. But he manages, since he can't bare the thought of falling asleep yet. Can't bare the thought of tearing his eyes from her...cause every time he does, every time he does...

Well, it just doesn't bare thinkin' about, what happens every time he does.

So instead, he sits. Body drug close to her bed in a swivel chair that no longer swivels. The knuckles of one hand gone white where they are clenched around the plastic arm of the thing. The fingers of his other hand lay a fraction of an inch from hers. Flexing open and shut, tugging at the crisp, cotton sheet laying beneath her. Like he wold like to pull her close, until the space between them is gone.

He wants, more than anything, to sweep his fingertips along the back of her hand - to feel the brush of that silken skin against his own, to feel the thrum of her pulse - and be certain that she is not just a trick of a desperate man's imaginings, but here. And real. And alive.

So that he can prove - so that he can confirm with his own hands - that she is whole. That there are still some parts of her that aren't broken.

Wants to trace those same fingers up along her arm, caressing every inch, until he reaches the spot where neck meets shoulder. Lift up, and stroke the platinum strands of hair from her face, and back behind the shell of her ear.

His skin is near to vibrating with the want of it all. But he manages to twist the frayed edges of his control together in a knot, and restrain himself. For her sake, not his.

Who knows what it would do to her right now, to have parts of his psyche slink their way inside her damaged mind?

He's so absorbed, so focused on the thin lines of blue tracing their way from her hand, up her wrist, and into her arm, that he doesn't see her open her eyes. Not until a tiny gasp draws his attention to her face.

He whips his head up, turns to lock his gaze on her. Sees liquid brown eyes staring back at him. The skin beneath them dark, heavy. A pink tongue darts out, licks a path along pale lips, and is pulled back in. "Hey."

That one little syllable may just be the best thing he has ever heard. "Hey."

"What - uh - what time is it?"

"Don't know. Late."

She coughs, once, starts to pull herself into a sitting position, Logan nearly vaults over her in his eagerness to help. Doesn't give a first thought, let alone a second, to fluffing a pillow to place behind her head.

The action earns him the closest thing to a smile to grace her lips since they got her back. He'd do it a hundred times over for a chance at one more of those.

"How ya feelin'? Need a drink?" He fumbles, grabs at the tumbler sitting by her bedside. Remembers Jeannie, before she went off to bed, saying that she should try and drink a little, if she awoke during the night. Tilts back the pitcher next to it, filling it half-way, before holding it out to her.

One hand, the one that he'd been watching so intently before she awoke, lifts up. A little shaky, but steady enough, and grasps at the bottom of the glass. Careful to avoid contact with his skin.

She holds the cup, stares. Head tilted and eyes narrowed a little. Like she isn't sure what to do with it, before she brings it to her lips, taking only a small sip before passing it back. "Thank you."

"Anytime, Darlin'." His body slumps back into the chair, hands restless by his sides, unsure where to settle, so they make do with his knees. Scratches at the threads of his jeans, just to give his fingers something to do that doesn't involve reaching out to Marie.

Silence builds between them, one brick at a time, before she knocks it down with a wrecking ball. "I killed, Logan. So many...so many people." She pauses, takes a deep breath. Her hands playing idly with the edge of the sheet. Looking - and sounding - more lucid then he can recall since her return. He wants to stop her. Tell her that she doesn't need to talk. Not now. Not about this, but he finds the words die a horrid death in his throat. Unwilling to halt her forward momentum.

"The _doctors_ -" she spits the word, real heat flaring in her eyes. An answering growl expands in his chest, echoing in the quiet room. "They wanted a weapon. And once they figured out that I kept..that I _keep_...all of the mutations from the people I kill, they thought they'd hit the jackpot. Thought that I'd be their perfect creation."

Eyes that had been downcast, focused on the fabric being pulled tight by her hands, raise to his once more. Hurt. But aware. A fire feeding into them that he has missed. "But I was losin' it, Logan. I...I was losin' it." She laughs, a watery chuckle that is painful to hear. "But you already knew that, didn't ya? Seen how messed up in the head I've become.

"And I wasn't no good to them as a weapon, if I was stark-raving mad, now was I?"

The internal battle with his vocal-cords shifts in his favor, and he manages to say her name. But she railroads right over him. Doesn't seem to even notice that he spoke.

"So they decided to try a purge. Find a way to flush out all those voices chattering away inside my skull, and just leave what they wanted behind. Only they messed up, and I didn't work no more. They broke me, Logan."

He can't stop the angry growl when he hears those words. Can't stop his body from propelling itself out of the chair, and into a pace. Covering the short distance between the foot of the bed, and the head. "You're not broken, Marie. Never think that." He reaches out - can't stop himself - fingers twisting through a lock of white hair. Lets it slip between his digits, the satin sensation of it making something warm curl in his core. "What they did -"

"I know, Sugah. I know. 'Cause they're back."

The hair falls from his grip, but his hand hovers a second longer, before he gains enough control of his motor functions to retract it. Lets it fall to the space between the edge of the bed, and her side. Pressing a fist down into the mattress, next to her hand.

He knows already, of course, had a front-row seat to the episode that sent her into a coma days ago. Knows that her main mutation is back, along with all of the people she absorbed. But to hear her say it - so easily - is something of a shock.

"They're all back now, and I feel...I feel..."

She shakes her head, eyelids pinching tight as she does. One of the monitors attached to her starts to speed up, the little digital read out going haywire. And not matching at all with the pace of her heart, which he can hear steadily pumping beneath her breast. No sign of distress in the organ that he can tell.

"Marie?" He has a hell of a time keeping the rising tide of panic out of his voice. Tightly-clipped words betraying his struggle. "Marie, what's wrong? Talk to me dammit."

One of the bulbs overhead pops and then goes dark. Followed by another. The hellish lighting in the place suddenly much less oppressive. Marie's stare is back on him. Even. Calm.

Scary as hell.

"I feel _whole._ "

~TBC


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** A small delay in writing seems to have resulted in this chapter being nearly twice as long as most. Lots going on in here folks! I considered - for like a minute - splitting it in two, but I think it works better as a cohesive piece. Only one more part to go after this. Again, lots of thanks to everyone for reading!

**Missing: Month Two**

The familiar, smooth burn of whiskey passing over Logan's tongue, and sliding down his throat into a liquid filled oblivion, does nothing to stabilize his agitated nerves. But the motion, the action of lifting the carved glass to his lips and tossing back the amber fluid, gives his hands something to do. Gives him something to focus on, something tangible.

Something a little more productive than searching another false lead, and a little less destructive than gutting the nearest available target.

Course, he's not sure that's a good thing.

He's gone out of his way to find a hole-in-the-wall bar that he never took Marie to; one where there aren't any raised eyebrows at his solitary arrival, or any well-intentioned questions that lead to his hand at someone's throat, and the metallic stench of blood filling his nostrils.

Only took him three tries to figure that out. Somehow, without him having meant to, he'd managed to work Marie into every crevice of his life, and the absence of her from them has left a gaping chasm.

He had to drive more than an hour outside of Westchester, into the middle of bum-fuck Nowhere, New York, to find a place with no memory of her. To find a place with patrons and workers just sour enough to not give a shit when he bites the tip off a cigar, and strikes a match. Anti-smoking laws be damned.

As he takes the first, deep pull of smoke - cedar and spice wrapping around him in a halo he swallows down deep - he allows his eyes to wander around the dive he's ended up in. Takes note of the nicotine stained walls, and the mismatched tables and chairs scattered throughout. Men in varying stages of alcohol poisoning sprawled in the corners. On the far wall he spies a dart board that looks like it might have survived a nuclear attack at some point; near it is a pool table with the felt peeling up at the edges - the perfect place for getting unsuspecting fools to part with their cash willingly - and he thinks: _Marie'd love it here._

He can practically hear her voice, can feel her breath ghosting by his ear. _So, Sugah, how ya wanna play this tonight? Hapless girl who doesn't know a cue from a golf club, or tipsy college co-ed who can't walk straight, let alone shoot?_

He closes his eyes, and takes in another lungful of cigar. Tries to block out the memory of a laugh, sweet and thick as molasses, and the feel of petal-soft cotton brushing against his arm. A carefree wink and a nudge.

He's not even half-way successful.

He's drawn out from his errant thoughts by a whiff of rosemary laced with the bitter aftertaste of isopropyl - all wrapped up in leather and cashmere - as someone makes their way to his end of the bar, looking about as out of place as a stripper at the Oscars.

"Whadya doin' here, Jeannie? Shouldn't you be babysittin'?"

"Scott and the Professor are on their way back - I think Storm can handle everything just fine until they arrive. She'd even managed to cajole the junior team into hosting a B-movie night for the students before I left. I think they were planning to watch _Mars Attacks!_ , though there were a few campaigning for _Attack of the 50 Foot Woman_."

He makes a sound halfway between a grunt and a grumble, and gestures to the barkeep for a refill. Snorting with derision when Jeannie orders a diet coke.

"You came all the way out here, and you're drinkin' soda?"

"I'm driving, Logan. And not all of us have a mutation that keeps us from getting drunk. Though, I see you aren't past trying."

"Yeah, well..." He drops his cigar into an ashtray that has magically appeared before him, and lifts his newly full glass in a toast of thanks to the barkeep, before throwing the contents to the back of his throat. "Figure I'm bound to get lucky one o' these days."

There is a heavy sigh to his right, and the quiet sound of a sip being taken. A minute passes, and then two, while he is still contemplating his now empty cup, so that when she speaks he's caught off guard. "Logan, I understand what you're going through-"

He slams the glass tumbler down with enough force to make the liquid in Jean's drink spill over the edges. Flexes his fingers around the glass, an unpleasant itch burning between his knuckles. "No. You don't."

"All right. Fine. Maybe I don't, not exactly. But I can imagine." She turns soft eyes on him. A look that doesn't so much demand his attention, as politely requests. And for a moment he lets himself calm enough to give her a chance. Feels the pull on his tendons ease. "I can imagine what I would be going through...if it were Scott." She shakes her head, reaching up to smooth back hair that is still perfectly in place.

"I don't like to imagine it, Logan."

He wants to deny the comparison, wants to say something about Scott being fully trained, whereas Marie...but the idea that Jean sees him and Marie as any sort of reflection of her and Scott is too jarring to comprehend. So instead what comes out is: "No. Suppose you wouldn't."

The corner of her lip pulls up, a near smile that makes the cut of her cheekbones stand out all the more in the dim lighting of the bar. Reminds Logan of how his heart would race when someone else would give him that same look. Someone with stripes in their hair, and mischievous brown eyes.

It's closing in on three months since she's been gone. Just five days shy of the close of the longest quarter of a year in his remembered life. And if anything, the ache he feels at knowing he can't see her - speak with her - whenever he wants, is only growing in strength.

The silence lolls between them while he sucks on his cigar, and she continues to sip at her drink; and he thinks that maybe she gets that he doesn't want to talk. Thinks that maybe, despite evidence to the contrary, she knows him well enough to pick up on that.

Then again, maybe not.

"You aren't the only one that cares about her, Logan. You should - you _need_ to know that."

A low-pitched rumble starts at the back of his throat, and it takes more willpower than he likes to keep from lashing out at her. Physically, verbally. Anyway he can.

"And if you wanted to talk, I just want you to know that you can. To any of us. To me."

"I don't need you're psychiatric bullshit, Jeannie. And I ain't about to talk about my _feeling's,_ if that's what you're after. Just need everyone to get off their asses and do somethin-"

Her pupils go wide, black discs taking over the irises, and it stops him mid-stream. Her hand grips his wrist, sharp nails digging into his skin, through the cuff of his shirt. Raising little welts through the fabric that quickly smooth away, leaving behind perfect, unmarred flesh. "Logan - something's wrong. We have to get to the mansion. **Now.** "

The saying 'like a bat outta hell' doesn't even begin to describe how fast he moves, barely pausing long enough for Jeannie to catch up to him in the parking lot.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

 

* * *

It's impossible to sleep with a dozen people rattling around unhappily inside your skull. Doesn't stop Rogue from trying. Doesn't stop her from pulling limbs, shaky like a newborn colt, up to her chin and tucking her head into the crevice they create. Back to the far wall, and seated on the shelf that acts as her bed.

She spends all day laying down in the labs, she doesn't want to spend her nights the same way.

Of course, day and night are really interchangeable. She has no concept of time. Seconds tick on into minutes, into hours, into days. And she can't keep track. Can't do much of anything while she waits to be taken to her next 'treatment' except try and organize her thoughts; sift through her internal companions, and grasp at the minuscule tidbits of herself she finds dancing in the fray.

 _A busted lip she gets when she is eight, and her and her best friend Carrie think that sledding down the stairs is a decent substitute for the snow they've never seen._

 _Stuck in Milwaukee, shivering, the cold seeping in through the cracks in her lips, and through the fabric of her cloak, as she tries to fade into the shadows. Stomach on empty. Eyes peeled open, and looking for someone - anyone - trustworthy enough to give her a ride._

 _The burst of dry, smoky flavor that explodes on her tongue after the first bite of jerky in Logan's camper. Pure pleasure._

 _The swell of happiness that fills her stomach like a balloon whenever she hears the rev of a motorcycle engine coming up the drive._

 _The tang of tequila, and the hot press of bodies in a too-crowded bar; grasping a sweaty palm, and spinning out on the dance floor..._

No. No. That one isn't hers.

It's just so hard to keep it all straight. To pinpoint the places where she stops and they begin. And it's getting to the point that she's not even sure it matters. Not sure that it'll be possible for much longer to pull out the threads that make up only her from the rest of the tangled mess.

She's not sure she'd survive it if she did.

And she has just enough awareness of her self, all amongst the tumultuous personalities tumbling around her mind, to know that survival is key. To know that, no matter what they've done to her. _She_ still wants to live.

Of course, so do _they_. And seeing as how their continued survival is now tied, irrevocably, to hers she guesses there's no real difference.

The lot of them start to argue this point inside her skull. Carol's the loudest, of course. Insisting that they want Rogue to survive for herself, not the rest of 'em. But Mortimer, poor, easily damaged, Mortimer - who was such a broken version of the Toad she'd met so long ago at Lady Liberty that he was barely recognizable when she absorbed him - cries out loudly that he wants to _live_ , damn it, and he's more than willing to do it through her, if that is his only option.

Which, as always, brings out Logan. And where Logan goes, so goes Erik - the two having formed the most twisted of alliances inside her head when everyone else started piling in like it was some warped version of a clown car.

A description that is more apt than she is comfortable with.

And so they argue. And argue. And argue. Until the hammering at her forehead is matched by the pounding at the top of her spine, and she thinks that her skin might crack from all the pressure they are exerting inside of her. "Stop it. Please. Stop it."

But they don't. Not at first. And so she grabs at her head, pulling, tugging, yanking at the hair - her voice growing in volume with each repeated plea. "Stop it stop it stop it, STOP IT!"

And just like that, the roar becomes a murmur punctuated by the assurances of one Wolverine that everyone ' _will damn well shut the hell up, or you'll all be missin' a spine._ '

She's just settling back again, head tucked to her knees, when her ears perk up. This time focused on the sound of the speaker mounted to the wall. A crackling noise filters through, before it's replaced with the always cool, always even, tones of her captor.

The one with the perfect teeth.

"Ms. D'Ancanto - how are you feeling this evening?"

She raises her head, slow as to keep the perpetual sensation of imbalance that she feels in this place from digging its nails in, and stares into the blinking red light above the camera. "You keep askin' that, but we both know you don't really care."

"On the contrary. I am **very** interested in hearing your response."

"Why?"

"We have invested a great deal of time, research, and energy into your acquisition and subsequent training, Ms. D'Ancanto, it behooves us to take an interest in your well being."

She snorts, a dry-nasally sound - too dehydrated to do much else - and swipes her tongue across her lips. "Then maybe y'all oughta consider lettin' me outta here, 'cause I can tell you that my being is far from well."

He laughs. The asshole actually laughs at her, and for a moment a vision of swiping his head clean from his body with a pair of claws that shouldn't be hers, is all she can see. A purring in her skull echoing at least one personality's agreement.

"Now, you see? It is that sort of spirit that gives us so much hope for your future with our organization, Ms. D'Ancanto. Speaking of which, I have some wonderful news. We are expecting a new set of recruits this evening. Some of which I believe you are acquainted with already."

The purring turns to a growl, and this time Rogue gives it a voice. "What have you done?"

"Me? Oh, absolutely nothing, Ms. D'Ancanto. Absolutely nothing. Now, may I suggest you get some rest? You have a long night ahead of you."

The growling turns to nausea, and the urge to vomit the meager contents of her stomach is too strong to ignore.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

 

* * *

Logan covers the distance between the bar and the mansion in under thirty minutes; Jean's arms snaked around him like a constrictor as he rides that magic button on Scott's bike the entire way.

The way her breath hitches in his ear as they come up on the final mile to the school lets him know that whatever the hell is going down, they're too late.

The sound of retreating helicopters overhead is another clue.

When they do arrive, the front drive, and entryway, look like they've been beaten down by a tornado, which probably isn't far from the truth. Lights are ablaze in every room, and several of the front windows have been blown out. Scorch marks decorate the front hall. And Logan notes the almost overpowering absence of heartbeats as he launches inside. A couple of quick whiffs confirm what his other senses are telling him. The sensation of vertigo at the realization is strong.

With only a few exceptions, the residents of the mansion are gone.

He follows his nose through the hallway, Jean at his heels, and heads into the Professor's office; spying the old man, Scooter, and Storm - along with a wounded man, dressed in black military garb, who happens to be strapped to a chair. The stink of fear pouring off of him in waves.

Logan's lungs are heaving, his claws scrapping at his jeans with each breath. Rage building up inside of him, waiting to be set free, but there is no visible outlet aside from the man in the chair. So he thinks that'll have to do.

This place is more of a home than Logan has ever known, even in the absence of Marie, and the thought of anyone busting in, and hurting what's his, makes his blood curdle. He stalks up to the bound man, raising his claws to rest at the pulsating artery pumping away at his throat. Moving so close as to be nose-to-nose. "Who the fuck are you?"

It's Storm's normally dulcet tone, edged with more than a fraction of anger, that answers, "A member of a military organization known as _Weapon Plus_."

The animalistic growl that pulls from Logan at the familiar name reverberates loudly around the room, the Wolverine pissed beyond measure. And he can't stop his free hand from rearing back, preparing to skewer the man, any more than he can stop himself from salivating at the thought of spilling the bastard's blood.

But Chuck has other ideas, and Logan feels his whole body lock up - as tight as it ever did when Magneto was tossing him around like a garbage can - leaving him frozen, mid-swing.

"Logan. Please calm down. I can assure you that we are attempting to resolve the situation as best we can at this time. No more violence is necessary."

"That pacifist bullshit is what got all your students nabbed, Chuck."

"Only three students, along with Mr. Allerdyce, were taken. The rest are in a secure location, with Ms. Pryde and Mr. Rasputin. The are all fine, I assure you."

"And the Icepick and the Firecracker?"

"Assessing the damages to the grounds, and building. Now, Logan. If I release control of your motor functions back to you, do I have your word that you will not do anything rash?"

He only manages to growl once more, but that seems to be all the promise Chuck needs to let him go. With a snarl, Logan pushes away from the bound man, claws still desperate to rip through something, but trying to stay on his best behavior. Like a damn dog.

"Mr. Stewart here was just telling us about the organization that employs him."

"Yeah? That info happen to include where the bastard's buds took the kids? 'Cause if not, I don't see why the hell we're still talkin' and he's still breathin'."

The man in question sucks in a sharp breath, the rich tang of anxiety - of fear - floods the sweat seeping out of his pores. Wolverine laps it up with more than a little satisfaction.

"I told you everything! Everything I know! They never told us where the final drop point was."

Stewart's eyes dart from Logan, to Xavier, and over past Scott, before resting on Logan once more. Looking like a freaked out rabbit. The myriad of scents oozing out of him making it impossible for Logan to get a bead on just how truthful he's being. "I doubt that, Bub."

"It's the truth, I swear! I already told them that! My unit was only meant for extraction. They were to be transferred out of our possession at our landing zone. I - I don't know where they take them from there."

"Awfully talkative little shit, aren't ya? You done this a lot?"

The man swallows, his Adam's apple bopping up and down, but doesn't offer up anything else. From the edge of his vision, Logan sees Storm pick up some kind of weapon from the desk. Closer inspection shows it to be a modified dart gun. "He had this on him. It's outfitted with carbantium."

There's no thought. No premeditation. Logan just moves, his anger, his frustration, finally spilling over, and demanding release. He sheaths the claws of one hand, and throws an uppercut into the man's chin, knocking his head back against the chair with a satisfying thunk. A moist scream rents the air when his metal-laced fist makes impact. Blood spurts out, smacking Logan in the face, across the nose, and cheeks.

"Logan!"

The adrenaline is pumping fast through his veins when he turns on them with a snarl. Looks of shock, anger, and disappointment directed at him. "WHAT! ?"

A hand drops to his shoulder, trying to tug him back, but really just succeeds in pissing him off. He turns, eying the hand, and the owner. "Come on, Logan. Back off a little, okay?"

"You wanna move that hand, Scooter?" The staring match that ensues is short-lived, with the Boy Scout giving up and lifting both his hands up in a warding gesture as he takes a step back.

"Logan, please. There is no need for such actions."

"Seriously? These gotta be the bastards that pumped me full of that shit before, Chuck. No way in hell two shadowy government agencies have the same tech. Which means they came here prepared to deal with me. And I think we both know that the chances of anyone else having Rogue are slim to none."

"Be that as it may, Logan. Violence won't solve anything."

"Haveta disagree with ya there. My experience it, solves plenty."

"Even so, believe me when I say that if he was aware of the location of the facility, he wouldn't be able to hide it from me."

"You're sure? There ain't nothin' he's keeping locked away? Nothing about-" At Chuck's sharply raised hand, he cuts himself off. Watching as Xavier's eyes go distant, while the asshole's go wide. Brain scanning at it's finest.

After a moment, Xavier breaks the connection - the man slumping back against his bonds once he is released - and turns back to Logan. Certainty in his words. "No, there isn't. He doesn't know where the children are, and he doesn't know where Rogue is either. I'm sorry."

Logan can hear the cool tones of the Professor, but he's barely able to process it. His mind a maelstrom of frustrated thoughts. He registers Scott being ordered to assemble all the data he can on the location Stewart provided. Can hear Scooter agreeing, and Storm moving off. Their intended plans finally sinking in, and leaving him confused.

"What the hell good is checkin' out the landing zone gonna do? Just stick your head in that mental-cap of yours, Chuck, and do some digging." He doesn't get why they haven't already. It'd be the first thing he'd do, if it were an option - after slicing and dicing every asshole that got left behind, of course. Unless it ain't just Marie that Xavier can't locate, thanks to her mutation. "You can get a read on the Firebug, can't ya?"

"When he regains consciousness, Logan, yes, I can. But, for now, all four of them have been given a sedative, so that is not an option. We need to examine all other avenues while they are still open to us."

Logan's whole body is vibrating with the want to move, but he has to acknowledge the logic behind what Xavier says.

Doesn't mean he has to like it though.

"And, Logan...there is no guarantee that they will take Mr. Allerdyce, or the other children, to the same location as Rogue. You need to be prepared for that."

Oh, he is - he just doesn't think he needs to be. Not when his gut is telling him that wherever the kids have been taken, Marie'll be there too. "Whatever, Chuck. We'll see."

* * *

~~~\/~~~

 

* * *

 **After - Day 20**

"How are you feeling today, Rogue?"

Rogue's eye twitches at the familiar question. Hating it more and more every time she is subjected to it. "Fine, Charles. Just fine."

Behind her, she can hear the scrap of boots against the tile floor. Back and forth, up and down, as Logan paces the length of the room. Can feel the agitation, and the frustration, emanating from him. Feels it calling to her soul.

He won't leave her alone. Won't let her out of his sight anymore. And where once she would have appreciated the gesture, right now, it just feels like being choked.

She wants - craves - room to breath. Room to think. Her mind's occupants demand her attention, and she can't give them their due - can't space them out appropriately, and settle their disputes - when there are always people hovering over her.

But they don't seem to get that. And since the near total silence she has maintained since her return has done little to garner her the results she wants, so she guesses it's time to try another angle.

"Do you have any idea how deafening silence can be, Charles? Any idea at all? Everyone - everyday - there's always constant...talking. The brain, the brain never shuts up. Always goin', always chatting away with itself. And you get, you get so you depend on it. That white noise. Maybe you get it better than most, Charles. Your brain never shuts off, not really. Not even when you sleep." It's not a question, but he takes it as such.

"No, Rogue. It doesn't. Not really. I can tune everyone else out better when I'm sleep, but it's not the same thing."

"Then you see - you see what I mean. Can ya imagine? Can ya imagine if all it was in there," she gestures to her temple, one finger poking and digging at it, "suddenly, was empty space? Was just miles upon endless miles of wide-open, nothin'?

"That's what they did. That's what I was left with. A whole lot of nothin'." She swallows, thickly, around the caustic taste of the words. Forges on.

"I know that file ya got on me didn't mention...didn't mention what they did to turn it off." Logan's constant prowl stops, his boots coming to a squeaky halt, and the Professor's kind eyes widen marginally. The tiniest of clues that he is intrigued. "There was a boy. A pale, doe-eyed boy. I don't know his name. They - they never told me. But I couldn't...I couldn't absorb him. They tried, over and over again. But it never worked."

"What do you mean, Rogue?"

"It never worked because whenever he got within five feet o' me, my mutations would shut off. All of 'em. And the voices...the voices would just...disappear." There is a resounding whimper in her skull, voiced by all of her companions in sync.

"And it _hurt_ , Charles. It hurt so much. Like a limb was being torn off." Logan moves, one step, then two, until he is standing directly behind her. Pine and leather and smoke filling up her senses, until she feels dizzy.

The want to pull him closer - to feel the comforting embrace that he can provide, and bathe herself in him to the exclusion of all else - battles violently with her urge to push him away. He, more than anyone else, shackles her thoughts - however unintentionally - and she can't afford that right now.

"Anyway, they...they used him. Used him to make some sort of...serum, I guess." She shrugs, unsure how to explain. "After I absorbed Timmy, and John, I sort of...snapped. I couldn't function anymore. I was burstin' the lights, and flarin' up everythin' that sparked. Musta set my clothes on fire at least a half-dozen times.

"They told me...told me they could pick and chose which parts of my mutation were active. They wanted to erase the personalities they made me absorb, make me sane. But I think..." She trails off, the memory one she doesn't want to delve into. "I think they also wanted to erase _me._ I mean, why wouldn't they? Could make the perfect solider that way. Just an empty shell, they could load up how the liked." She snorts in tandem with the sound of both the internal and external Logan's grinding their teeth. His knuckles popping a second letter.

"Guess they got their dosages screwed up, 'cause the results weren't what they were expecting. They shut out the voices, _and_ my mutation, and just left..me. Only...hollowed out. I wasn't exactly super-solider material after that. I don't wanna think about what they may have done if y'all hadn't found us when you did."

That soft, concerned, almost fatherly look is back in Charles' eyes, and she hates that it is coated in pity. "There wasn't any record of this boy in any of the files we extracted, Rogue."

A large hand comes to rest on the back of the sofa, Logan's exposed skin just inches from her face. She suppresses her instinctual shudder, manages to keep from flinching, but just barely. "He wasn't in any of the cells, either, Darlin'."

She turns her head up, pulling her shoulders back enough so that she can meet Logan's heavy gaze. "They must have erased the files, then. Took him with 'em, or transferred him to another facility, or somethin'." She shakes her head, turning back around, not liking the cottony feeling of confusion filling her up. She knows she didn't imagine him, the boy with the kind eyes. "'Cause he was there, I swear it."

Charles gives her a long, assessing look, his hands steepled in front of him like a prayer. "It's certainly worth looking into, thank you for the information, Rogue."

A fly, buzzing against a window pane calls her attention, so she doesn't exchange the societally-dictated pleasantries. What it's doing in the mansion, she has no idea. She can't be sure of the month - no one has kept her up to date with that sort of thing, and it's not like she's been allowed out at all - but she knows it's out of season. Still, the tiny creature beats itself against the glass, ignorant of the chilly death awaiting it on the other side.

An urge, deep and hungry in her stomach, builds up; and in the blink of an eye, she feels her tongue, lengthen, and curl - snapping it out of her mouth to catch the thing in her sticky grasp. Swallowing it down with a gulp, and an off-putting sense of contentment. A flare of shame that doesn't belong to her, flushes up her spine, Mortimer's voice telling her he is sorry.

She doesn't even realize that she's closed her eyes until she drags them open again, and sees Charles' shocked gaze. Logan's breathing has hitched behind her, and she knows that he is just as surprised by her actions as the Professor.

She can't imagine she'll ever have a better time to break away from them than this. "May I be excused now, Charles? I'd like to have some time on my own." She twirls a finger by her head."Got some stuff to sort out."

He nods his acquiescence, glancing at the window where the fly was, before returning to look upon her with a concerned smile. She stands, and moves towards the door, pausing for a moment to turn back to them, and deliver one last bit of news.

"It's better now, Charles. Better now that they're back. The voices, personalities. Whatever you wanna call 'em. The noise is better than the silence."

She doesn't wait for a response, just pulls the door open, and strides on through, tensing when she hears Logan start to follow.

But Charles, if nothing else, is excellent at reading people. At least she assumes that's his reason for calling Logan back, and allowing her to slip out, unhindered and unaccompanied.

She just needs time to think.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

 

* * *

Logan gives her the rest of the day, and well into the night to ease back into herself. Gives her the time, and space, that everyone seems to think she needs.

The amount of worry that has been fueling his systems over the past few weeks is beginning to eat at him. He doesn't care if she's touchable, or not. Doesn't care if there is one voice inside her head, or twenty. Not as long as she's safe, and happy. He just wants to help her, anyway he can. And his lack of ability to do anything but simply _be there_ makes him feel useless, and now they are telling him to not even do that. To let her alone, so she can figure it out herself.

Well fuck that. If that's what Marie wants – what she needs – she's just gonna have to come out and say it, because he isn't gonna stay gone otherwise.

He waits to go off in search of her until after the rest of the mansion has toddled off to bed, and finds her room is still empty. He huffs in deep, locate a trail that ends outside, in Storm's gardens. Finds Marie dressed in a sheer gown, and little else, despite the chill of winter in the air.

She's an apparition. A pale, translucent ghost. Skin and barely-there clothing as colorless as the breath escaping her mouth in little crystal puffs of air, lit up by the moon. She is a marble statue against the evergreen backdrop of the gardens. Living art.

She's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"It's cold."

Emotionless, empty. The words are a statement of fact, nothing more. That sweet, southern drawl he adores, muted. Its absence cinches a noose painfully around his heart.

"It's December, Darlin'." He takes a slow, measured step towards her. Then another. Closing the gap. Slips the jacket from his frame, heated by his own pounding blood, slides it onto her shoulders. Leaves his hands there. His palms itching to follow the leather down along her arms; to wrap it around her, and tug her body close.

One bare, thin-boned hand - nails grown in past the tips now - reaches up, grasps the lapel. Tugs it to meet the other, holding it closed around her neck. She sighs.

"I missed my birthday."

"I know." Standing behind her, his eyes travel down the slope of her nose, the swell of her lips, parted on an inhale. Past the upturned tick of her chin. Watches her, as she stares out into the night.

"We were supposed to go out." Her neck tilts, angles her head towards him, but her eyes stay focused off, towards the sky. "You were gonna get me drunk."

It's on the tip of his tongue to offer. To tell her to throw some damn clothes on, and meet him in the garage. To make a night of it. It's only midnight after all.

But she isn't ready, and he isn't an idiot.

"Later, Darlin'. Don't need a birthday to do that. Any ol' day will do." Her body, so close that with every breath he inhales the sweet, heady scent of her, presses back against his. A long, shuttering breath passing out of her as she relaxes. Without his direction, his hands fall to her sides, by her hips. Not grasping, but not letting go either.

"I have all these memories, different ways that people celebrated their twenty-first. Some better than others. I want one of my own."

He presses a light kiss to the top of her head, lingering for a moment, before allowing his cheek to rest against her scalp. Knows that it isn't just birthdays that she's talking about. That she's coming to grips with being so many people, and still just Marie, all at the same time. Though he can't voice it any better than she can, just wants to cling to her for however long they have. "You will. Just give it time."

She twists her head around, so that she is looking up at him over her shoulder, the air between their faces heated by her breath. "You promise?"

"I promise, Marie."

She smiles, soft and slow, "thank you" and lifts up on her toes. Closing the distance between them, and brushing her mouth against his, once, before pulling back. It's fleeting, but still that minty taste he hasn't allowed himself to dwell on for the last three months overwhelms his senses. "Thank you."

He presses his forehead to hers, feeling the soft silk of her hair like a caress against his skin. "Anytime, Darlin'. Anytime."

~TBC


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for the long delay in getting this last chapter out. First I had strep throat, which put me behind at work so I had to catch up. And then the sequel to one of my favorite RPGs came out, which put me behind IN LIFE so I had to catch up ! I will tell you that I've worked hard to get this last part just right, and I hope that it was worth the wait. Oodles and oodles of thanks to everyone for reading! You make my day :-)

  
**Missing: Month Three**   


Fight or flight. It's an inborn response to negative stimuli that every living, breathing creature possesses, and Rogue is no different. Day in, day out, she's been strapped down, drugged up, and forced to endure. Her choice to fight, or to flee, taken from her. The occupants of her mind - her own personality the smallest droplet in the maelstrom - rally against the injustice for her, where she cannot.

They thrust her limbs out and forward for her, before the next syringe can be twisted into her injection port. A fist that she doesn't consciously form lands with intent against the square-faced jaw of the man in a lab coat trying to hold her down. Her tongue flicking out to catch the sticky spurt of blood that splatters her face in the wake of the punch. A whispered, purring endearment tickles the back of her mind - telling her she did good - a moment before a hostile internal takeover sends her sprawling to the ground; a tray of med-equipment clattering on the tile as she falls.

She can feel them, the most recently acquired personalities, volleying for control - not understanding how the hierarchy is supposed to work. The count inside of her has finally reached an amount far too numerous for her to be able to contain any longer, and so she can do nothing but twitch, and wait for them to figure it out themselves.

Her fingers itch around phantom flames, aching for a burn that she can't create; the corner of her mouth pulls up into a sneer that she knows is pure St. John, and several vitriolic phrases pour out of her mouth, with smatterings of Creole profanities that would make her Mama blush. There are tears pooling in her eyes as someone in her mind screams to be let out. To be let go. To be free.

She has no words of comfort left to offer.

She is hauled, bodily from off the floor, and tossed onto the slab. The bulb overhead bursting in time with the pain shooting through her skull. Through the din in her head, she can just make out Carol screaming at her to stop pussying out, and _fight_.

"I can't."

Whether the denial is in her head, or out loud, Rogue has no idea. Not that it makes any difference at this point. Slick tracks coat her cheeks as the tears that aren't hers fall in torrents. Someone in her mind tries to make her stand, but finds their attempts foiled by the cuffs that have been slammed closed around her ankles and wrists. Her sweat slicked limbs twist against the restraints. Futile efforts that do nothing but sap her of what precious energy she has left. A howl of frustration fills her lungs, and then the room, bouncing off the walls and reverberating down into her bones.

The man with perfect teeth leans over her, a burst of purple and blue decorating his cheek in the shape of her knuckles. Minty-fresh breath skating across her face, her lips, in panting huffs; broken blood vessels interrupting the white of his eyes, carrying the first hint of malice she has seen in them so far.

There is a harsh, angered edge to his voice when he speaks, one gloved hand pressing down on her shoulder in a manner that is far from soothing. "Calm down, Ms. D'Ancanto. This won't hurt a bit, and I promise you will feel better when it's over."

She shakes her head no, the fiery rage of everyone inside of her making itself known as a persistent drumming throb in her gray matter. But she can't stop him from twisting the syringe onto the port - exhausted as she already is from the drugs they always keep circulating in her system - and depressing the plunger. Barking out a command to those around him as he does, one that she can't hear.

They say that there's a moment, just before the world comes crashing down, when a person's whole life flashes before their eyes. When that moment happens to Rogue, there are more than twenty lives sharing the space of a few seconds.

The man with the perfect teeth is wrong. It hurts like hell.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

  


* * *

What little grip Logan has on his humanity is slipping away with each passing day. He can feel it easing away from him, like a dream losing coherency in the dawning light of day. The urge, the desire, to bury his fists, claws and all, into anything - anyone - growing in appeal, hour by hour. But he manages to refrain. Barely.

And even then, he knows that he is only doing so for Marie. For the sweet, lingering ghost of her that skirts around him everywhere he goes. Reminding him that there is a purpose to what he does, a reason. Tells him that this is a fight he can win. That he can find her. That he can find her, and when does he's never letting her out of his fucking sight again. And he can't do any of that by losing his cool and fucking up the mission to rescue her before the plane has even left the ground.

But, _damn_ _,_ it's hard to do when the damn Boy Scout is waggling a finger at him like he's a four-year caught sneaking candy. "You **will** follow protocol, and you **will** listen to me, or you won't step foot on the jet. Is that clear?"

The growl, dug up deep from the recesses of his soul - anger and intimidation, and filled with every ounce of animal instinct he has - succeeds in doing exactly nothing. The other man gives him a patient look, mixed with annoyance. Classic One-Eye. So he tries English instead to get his point across, with just a little a flash of claw - they're always pushing at the surface these days anyway. "Just try keeping me off the thing, Bub, and see what happens."

"This is not up for debate, Logan." A sigh, and a hand ruffled through perfectly coiffed hair tells Logan that, at the very least, the man in front of him gives a shit. That maybe he gets where Logan is coming from, and despite himself, Logan hates him a little less. "Look, you and I both know that Rogue wouldn't want you putting her safety before that of the children. We will do everything in our power to find her, and get her out - _if_ she is there - but there are young children there too, Logan. We know that for a fact. And they have to come first."

The claws return to their sheaths, in time with the popping of his jaw. The Wolverine in him is desperate to be let loose. Desperate to rend and tear and carve through everything keeping him from his goal. He's never been a patient man, but if nothing else, these past few months have taught him how easy those urges are to put a leash on.

It just takes the mention of her name.

"Is. That. Clear?"

There are no eyes to make contact with, just that stretch of red that reflects Logan's own gaze back at him. He stares into it anyway, speaking as much for his own benefit as for Scooter's. "Crystal."

The word is sour on his tongue, but a minute later he is on the jet and hurtling through the sky at a speed that makes his stomach twist uncomfortably, and that's all that matters.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

  


* * *

The walls of her new cell are padded. A present after her last treatment, the one that left her a lump of unblinking confusion. But they don't need to be. Bashing her head against the walls would require an amount of willingness to interact with the outside world that she just can't muster right now.

Not when every last vestige of energy she has is being spent on searching the recesses of her mind. Digging, and prodding, and scraping at the corners. Trying to find what she's lost.

 _Why won’t you answer?_

It's cold in her cell, and colder in her mind. A blank canvas that was once a chaotic work of art, wiped clean from spilled turpentine, leaving tracks of color at the edge.

 _Say something. I know you’re there._

But it's a lie. She doesn't know any such thing. There are only ghosts - echoes of friends - she can see them when she closes her eyes, but their voices are gone. And she can't recreate them from memory, no matter how hard she tries. And the silence is maddening.

 _Answer me._

She's rocking back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around her in-drawn knees. A familiar position for her and countless inmates of mental facilities the world over. She wonders if that's all she is now. No longer the girl with the poisonous skin. No longer on track to be the government's perfect weapon. A no-mess solution to their attempts to create a super solider using scalpels and gene therapy. Why bother to go through all that trouble, when they can just have her soak it all up like a sponge?

 _Please >_

Which begs the question, what are they going to do with her now? Now that they've managed to break her in a way that none of the forced absorptions ever did?

What good is she to them anymore?

There's no way they are just going to let her go. Even she isn't crazy enough to think that. The thought brings a worrying niggle to the back of her mind that chills her like nothing else. And with the thought of actually dying in here more likely than ever, she could really use a friend.

 _Someone. Anyone._

But there is nothing there. Nothing to be found. Nothing for her to grab a hold of; she's swimming in the dark, and has no idea which way is up.

 _Answer me, please!_ "Please..."

 _Anna Marie D’Ancanto you stop that right this minute! I will not have any child of mind carrying about in such a manner._

"Mama?" Her voice, dry and brittle and oh-so-pathetic sounding to her own ears, is swallowed up by the padding on the walls. Dying a quick, echo-less death. There is no response. It wouldn't be reasonable for there to be one.

It's not her Mama after all, not really. Rogue's drained a lot of people in her life, but not her mother. Never her. Which means it's just a memory. Not real. Not someone to talk to. Not someone who can help. Who can hold her and soothe her, and make everything all right. With a kiss to her forehead, and promises of pleasant dreams.

She just really wishes it was.

Because the silence; the expansive, empty hall of her mind, hurts.

Everything _hurts_.

She drags blunt nails up her arm, digs them in as much as she can, hoping the physical pain may detract from the emotional. A sick little balm to her floundering soul.

It's no real surprise when it doesn't work.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

  


* * *

Logan's never been here before. Of that he is certain. But there is something so eerily familiar about the enclave that his nerves, hair-trigger as they are, immediately stand up and take notice. Hackles raised, and claws out. Flashes of distant memories peek through the empty black that makes up so much of the real estate in his head. Scents, and sounds. Images that have haunted him through countless nightmares, brought to the fore-front. Battling for supremacy in his mind.

But he presses them make, knocks them into submission. He knows already, that these walls belong to the same organization that robbed him of his life before. Knows that as recently as four months ago, they made a play to get him back. But any wonder he might have once possessed is gone. Burnt to a cinder; the ashes of it replaced by one, bright-burning flame.

 _Find her._

Fifteen minutes later, the alarms are blaring, and there is a trail of destruction left in his wake that has the Wolverine howling in pleasure inside Logan's mind, as he marches in mock military cadence before the bolted interior door leading to the next sub-level. Sometimes, it seems like he wastes years of his fucking life waiting for locked doors to open.

But this time - this time he knows there'll be a pay off. It only took one footfall into the place, and one whiff of the recirculated air pumping through the vents, to bring the distilled scent of Marie to his nose. Logan had retreated in that split-second, and let his more feral counterpart take the reins - he didn't have a choice, really. Roaring through the facility - all offices and labs so far, no cells - and hacking through anything that stood in his way while he tried to track the scent. Both disturbed and exhilarated by the way it seemed to permeate everything around him.

He can't find her. He has to find her. He **will** find her. Because this time, she's here.

 _She's here._

There is blood congealing on his clothes, and he can't seem to stop the low growl rumbling in his chest, or the retract-release retract-release motion of his claws that he makes with each step. The searing pain just enough to keep him from losing it entirely. Helps to remind him that he's human, and not a beast. As do the hairs on the back of his neck, electrified rods, standing to attention at the force of Jeannie's stare.

He's grateful it's Jean at his back right now, and not Scooter. (The multi-prong attack might leave the disjointed team more vulnerable, but the more ground they can cover in as short a time as possible, the better.) She may have been paired with him to keep him in check (no matter how wild he might get, he isn't about to gut someone who is already unconscious, and Jeannie has made knocking people out with just her brain an art form over the years), but at least with Jeannie he doesn't have to listen to mid-mission lectures about the appropriate use of his claws, while he's barely capable of forming complete sentences.

She'll wait until later.

"Shadowcat, need an ETA on these locks." The crackling sound of Summers's tense voice rolls through the piece in Logan's ear. A frustration that Logan feels echoed in his gut, obvious in the other man's tone.

"Just a second, I've almost-" The girl pauses, clacking sounds filtering over the comm link at speeds Logan would find impressive in any other situation, but finds unbearably slow in the current one. "Got 'em!"

So she says, but the door in front of Logan remains stubbornly closed. He's about ready to dig his way through the fucker. No high-voltage wiring this time at least. "Try again, Kid."

"Sorry. I didn't mean the doors. I meant the prisoner files. They're brought them here. John and the others. There are..." More clicking reverberates though the speaker, Logan's level of irritation increasing with each key stroke. The sounds stop abruptly, the silence filled with a gasp. "Oh God."

"Shadowcat? What's wrong? Report."

Logan can hear the girl swallow, thick, and wet. Like something nasty has lodged itself in her throat and she's about to choke. But at least she's still breathing. He likes the girl, but he ain't about to go back and help her. Not when he's this close. But when she speaks, she's all business. Whatever caught her off guard, she's pushing it aside for now.

"There are thirty-two people in containment. Bobb - Iceman, Colossus - the majority of them are in your wing. When I unlock the doors you're going to want to head to the right first. The cell block on that side is full. Security feed shows at least three guards on either side. Be careful, there's...there are a lot of kids in there.

"Wolverine, you and Dr. Grey are gonna encounter some resistance. Looks like the main laboratory is in front of you. Along with half the doctors and guards left in the place."

She stops, and takes a deep shuddering breath. One that puts Logan on edge. "And...I've got Rogue's files, too. She's here."

His growled "where" can't be called human, but she seems to get the message. "Other side of the facility. Cyclops, you and Jubes are closest to her position. Head down the main corridor. The second door on the left will lead you to her ward. She's - she's in solitary. Minimal guard coverage. I'm accessing the locking mechanisms now, and...got it. You should all be clear."

Logan has no idea how much time passes between when she gives the go ahead, and when he is consciously aware of his actions again. By the time the white noise in his head is replaced with the sound of Scott's call for attention, he just knows that he is swimming in the scent of sweet copper, and that there is a dead man who reeks of Marie - her blood, her pain, her confusion...her fear - falling to his feet, three puncture wounds dicing up his insides. Colgate white teeth gleaming in the fluorescent lights. Jeannie situated a safe distance away, her hands held up in defense. A look of understanding on her face.

"Cyclops to Wolverine. I've got her, Logan. I've got her."

Logan could wait until the facility is secure, the lock down complete, to meet Cyclops on the jet. To lay panicked, desperate eyes upon Marie. He could.

But he has never been a patient man.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

  


* * *

  
**After: Day 179**  
/u>

The steady push-pull of air through her lungs - breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out - is soothing to Rogue in a way she never would have thought possible. Meditation had always been Logan's thing, and even with a copy of him residing in her skull, she'd never quite been able to get the hang of it. The noise inside always overwhelming the calm on the out. She'd given it up as a control technique almost from the beginning, instead appealing to Logan for assistance in methods of relieving stress, when control seemed to lofty of a goal. Danger room sessions became the norm for her after that.

But now, she finds locating the peaceful center needed for a successful meditation session downright easy. Her mind has reached a saturation point with its occupants, and they are all as in need of calm as she is these days. Something more than what fitful rest punctuated with recurring nightmares can provide. Eager to find a balance where they can all coexist. Equals in her mind, with Rogue maintaining control of her body. As diplomatic of a compromise as they have been able to manage.

Most days, and this one is no different, she finds herself out on the grounds well before dawn - in a spot secreted away from the more well-traveled portions of the lush gardens adorning the estate. Where quiet contemplation will not be interrupted by kids barreling through flung open doors, bodies revved up on sugar and life, and she can ease back into herself one breath at a time

Logan is never there when she begins, but he is always there when she finishes. Heat radiating out from where his own folded limbs press against the sharp points of her knees. Lotus to lotus. A mirror image that isn't. Whether he waits for her arrival, watching from the edge for her breathing to even out so that he can join her unseen, or simply moves at his own pace and slips in when she is well past noticing, Rogue has no idea. But she finds comfort in his presence - in his proximity - all the same.

For months, the routine has been in place, but it is one that she doesn't mind. There is relief in this singular activity that she can count on every day.

And every day, as she reaches the end of her session - the curve of her spine softening and her legs falling further open into a butterfly stance as she allows the sounds of the world around her to perforate her solitary bubble - he asks the same question.

"Are you ready?"

In the past her answer has always been the same. A bit of air sucked between her teeth, an unpleasant shudder that would race from the soles of her sock-covered feet to the exposed tips of her ears, and a solitary shake of her head. A glance to his face that would confirm no disappointment, only unending patience, as an upheld hand - skin pink with the rising sun - would lower carefully to his knee. She doesn't think she'll ever understand where he finds the reserves, but she is grateful they run so deep.

But today, today it is different. Today the answer changes, slipping out from between her lips in a stolen moment of bravery, surprising her with its intensity.

"Yes."

And she is. She feels it deep down. The thrumming, buzzing sensation that has always accompanied her mutation - one that disappeared with a needle and a madman's smile all those months ago, only to return in a flood of pain and sensation weeks later - is nothing but the gentlest of hums at the moment. So light that she could mistake it for a trick of the misty morning spring air collecting on her skin. She's ready.

Once she doubted she ever would be. Planned to live the remainder of her life without contact - despite all her efforts to gain control. Didn't seem to be in the cards for her, not when she could barely keep from choking on fear at the thought of touching _anyone_ ever again. But the bloom of panic that she expects to surface the moment she lifts her hand, and tugs the glove from it without looking at Logan, never arrives.

It's an explosion of color, the first touch without pain, without fear. When all she feels beneath her skin is slowly extending warmth, pulsing from where her hand touches his. Eyelids that had remained closed throughout his arrival, and the pressing of hands, peel open to stare. Fingers meet tip to tip, the pink flesh of his palm softer than it has any right to be against hers. Her long, thin digits dwarfed by his own, thicker ones.

She trips over a sigh, her breath catching for a moment as his hand slips to the side. Shifting her fingers open so that his can sneak into the opening they make. Pressure, soft but steady as he squeezes her, tugging gently for her attention. The space between them lessened by a fraction at the movement. Knee bumping knee.

Eyes that she knows are more green now than brown - a visible reminder of her experiences - shift their focus from joined hands, to travel up the length of his arm. Taking in the way his muscles bunch and flex beneath a too-tight t-shirt. Dark, curly hair lining the pathway, disappearing beneath the gray cotton. Her gaze pauses, lingering on the curve where his shoulder meets his neck; a vein made more prominent when a swallow swells his throat. The urge, the need, the _want_ to ghost her bare fingers across that tempting swath of skin - to taste it with her lips and tongue - is swift and vibrant and surprising only in the sense that it does not scare her at all.

His thumb twitches in her grasp, sending a spark through her body that expresses itself in a shiver, and forces her eyes up to his. Finds him staring back, pupils dark, dilated. The hazel overtaken by black. A shadow of a smile alights on his mouth and is answered immediately by one of her own.

There are no comments from her internal peanut gallery, awed into silence. No racket or commotion to sully the moment. Just the chirping of a bird nearby, and a washing of relief through her soul.

His body unfolds from the ground, straightening to his full height, never releasing the hold on her hand. Tugs her to vertical, the space between them halved by the motion. Warm breath leaving his lungs to be caught in the current between their bodies and brought into hers. His free hand coming up to slide a stray wisp of white hair behind her ear.

"Well then, Darlin', I believe we got us a birthday to celebrate. Bit past due, but...better late than never." He glances out towards the newly risen sun, the harsh angle of his jaw looking beautiful to her in the growing light. "Probably a bit early now though, huh?."

The hint of disappointment in his voice makes her laugh. The sound growing as she finds herself unable to contain the bubble of joy that is filling her up. "Ya think?"

His eyes shoot back to hers, heat in his gaze as a playful growl reaches her ears. "Could toss ya on the bike now, if ya want. Drive 'til we find a place that's already open. Or ain't closed yet. But I thought ya might wanna wait 'til after dinner. Invite some friends along, or somethin'."

Her smile slips, just a little, surprised at his offer and unsure how to respond. Logan doesn't care for large group outings. It's a fact about him that is as ingrained into her as his love for cigars, and craving for the open road. But the tilt of his head, the steady tonal quality of his voice, even the slight tightening of his fingers against hers, all tell her that he means it. That she could invite Jubilee or Scott or Kitty or anyone else that she may call 'friend' along to wherever they end up. He wouldn't mind. Not if it'd make her happy.

She gives the idea some thought. Thinks of who she might want beside her to celebrate, aside from Logan. Who might be the right kind of company to celebrate a birthday that is six months past, and a new-found ability to touch that she isn't certain she wants the world at large to know about just yet.

She thinks of vanilla and brandy; of English fog and Louisiana heat; of long stretches of pavement and wide open sky; of electricity and fire. And she thinks: she has everyone she'd want with her, here already.

She gives his palm another squeeze - reveling in the feeling of his pulse pressed so tightly against hers, beating out together in an unmatched rhythm that feels just right - and beams her happiness, her contentment, at him in a wide grin.

"No, Sugah. No one else. Got everyone I need right here."

One eyebrow raises. Like she knew that it would. Always a skeptic. "Ya sure?"

The question, innocent as it may be - simple confirmation of a fact already addressed and stated - makes her pause. Two little syllables that can apply to so many facets of her life. She has no idea who she will be in a year, or five, or ten. No clue if this hard-fought for balance will tip to one side or another, if she will lose herself to the masses and crumble beneath the weight. But for the moment, she is in control, and there is no company better than Logan by her side. For now, that's enough.

"Yeah, Logan. I'm sure." The look he gives her is laced with doubt, and that just won't do. So she tugs on his hand, pulling him with her in the direction of the main drive, flashing him a wink and a smile. "Now, come on. I wanna go for a ride."

The corner of his mouth ticks upwards, a lopsided grin that she adores; his large hand still encasing her smaller one as he falls into step beside her. The heat of his body caressing her with each footfall.

"Think they still remember me at Mickey's?"

"Darlin', ain't no way they could forget."

~End

 


End file.
